


Oh Lazarus, how did your debts get paid

by everywordnotsaid



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Clay Spenser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:42:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everywordnotsaid/pseuds/everywordnotsaid
Summary: Clay says he's fine. Clay says he's coping. Clay says don't worry. But that's exactly the problem, Brock thinks. The more Clay says not to worry the more worried Brock gets.It's easy to die for your friends, the harder thing might be living for them.
Relationships: Brock Reynolds & Clay Spenser
Comments: 99
Kudos: 256





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd I'm back! Hope you all enjoy :)

Brock has always been quiet. He didn’t say his first word till he was nearly a year and a half old, and he waited to start really talking until after he was two. In kindergarten he spoke so little his teacher recommended his mom take him to a child psychologist, worried there was something wrong with him developmentally. The prognosis came back normal; Brock _could_ talk, he just didn’t seem to want to. 

He’s gotten better over the years, certainly chattier now then he ever was a kid, but he’s still the most reserved member of Bravo. It’s not that he doesn’t feel like his voice is heard, he knows the rest of the guys respect him, just that he prefers to wait until he has something important to say. So he may not talk a lot, but Brock listens. He listens and he watches and he sees a lot of things. He sees Clay. 

Everybody’s been impressed with his progress, after Manila and Swanny and everything that came with it. He’d persevered, made it back to active duty against all the odds, and Jason is satisfied with that. Everyone is. They’ve all seemed to accept that he’s managed to bounce back, because who wouldn’t want it to be true? It’s just being a seal after all, you get hurt, you lose your buddies, and you keep moving. Rub some dirt in it and walk it off. 

Brock’s not so sure though. For all that Clay says he’s fine, Brock sees a man who’s drowning, a man desperately clinging to the end of his rope. It’s the quiet moments in between the chaos that is all their lives that give it away. When there are no hills to run or ops to prosecute. When he’s not out with Sonny getting drunk or pushing himself in the gym, seemingly determined to be even stronger then before he got blown up. When there’s nothing to fill his time with, that’s when Brock catches glimpses of the truth. The moments where Clay sits and stares and his eyes are hollow and haunted. It’s worrying. Brock’s seen that look in teammates eyes before, in friend’s eyes. It never leads anywhere good. He doesn’t want to talk to Jason about it yet, at least not till he’s got more to go on then a feeling. It’s not that Brock doesn’t think Jason would care, he just thinks that Jason wants Clay to be okay so badly he’d brush it aside. 

So, on a sunny Saturday afternoon Brock decides to just man up and talk to him about it. It’s a seemingly simple plan at face value, but if he’s learned one thing from Clay’s time with Bravo it’s that things with him are never just simple. He has to do it carefully, if he comes at Clay straight on he’ll clam up tight and pretend everything’s fine and Brock might as well try and get something out of a brick wall. So instead he picks Cerberus up from the kennel, and shoots Clay a text. 

_Cerb could use some fresh air. Want to go a run with us?_

The affirmative answer comes almost before Brock has time to put his phone back in his pocket and he smiles. It might not be entirely fair to use the hair missile as bait, Clay loves Cerb almost as much as Brock does, but he’s not above playing a little dirty. Anyways, it’s not like it’s a total lie. Cerberus could always use a run. 

Clay’s already waiting outside his apartment when Brock picks him up, wearing work out clothes, his Bravo cap on backwards. He grins when he sees Brock pull in across the street, jogging over. He goes round the bed of the truck first and sticks his fingers through the grate of Cerb’s crate for a scratch before getting in the cab with Brock. 

“Hey, thanks for inviting me, I think I could use some fresh air too.”

He says, holding up a fist. Brock reaches over and bumps it as they pull away from the curb. 

“No problem, man. Cerb always loves the company anyways.” 

Cerb hears his name through the open window of the cab and barks excitedly in agreement from the bed of the trunk as if in agreement, and Clay laughs. In this moment, with his head thrown back and a smile pulling at his lips it’s hard to imagine that anything’s wrong. 

They drive to a park about 45 minutes away. It’s a little far but it’s got great hills and a nice view of the ocean. When they arrive there’s only one other car in the parking lot, which is another reason Brock likes it. There are hardly ever that many people here- probably because of how out of the way it is-which makes it a good place to get away from things for a bit. Brock takes Cerb here a lot when he needs some time to think, hopefully it’ll provide Clay some of the same peace he finds. 

Once Brock parks they warm up for a bit, stretching out their muscles. Cerb’s chomping at the bit to get going though so they set out after only a couple of minutes. It’s pleasantly cool out as they start their run, and there’s a salty breeze coming off the ocean that whips at their hair. Clay lets Brock set the pace, and he leads them up a trail he’s run many times before, Cerberus loping few feet ahead of them. This particular route ends at a look out point, which is where Brock’s planning on making his move. 

By a couple of minutes into the run they’re both sweating, even with the breeze. Before Manila Clay was faster then Brock by more then a hair, but now Brock can tell he’s struggling to keep up. Every now and then as Clay runs the hem of his gym shorts will ride up a little, exposing the bottom of the knotted ugly scarring Brock knows stretches up both his thighs. It’s a grim reminder of how close they came to losing him, in more ways then one. Brock doesn’t like to think about it too much, still has nightmares about finding Clay on that street, so instead he keeps his eyes ahead and watches the path. 

When they reach the viewpoint Brock waves back at Clay, gesturing for him to stop, before bending over and putting his hands on his knee as he pants. Cerburus dances excitedly around him, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Clay slows to a halt a few steps ahead of Brock, pulling his shirt up to wipe at his sweaty face before surveying the view. 

“Damn, you weren’t kidding about this place.”

Catching his breath a little Brock straightens, getting out his water bottle and giving some to Cerb before taking a drink. 

“Yeah, it’s a good spot.” 

He replies, wiping water off of his chin where it had spilled and surveying the view. In front of them there’s a bench that looks out past the half circle of low cobblestone wall that rings the little clearing in the sedge grass, forming the viewpoint that overlooks the water. Clay walks forward, collapsing into it and kicking his feet out in front of him with a sigh. Brock follows behind, sitting down next to him and clicking his tongue for Cerberus to come. For a while neither of them say anything, content to watch the surf break and crash across the beach below them. Somewhere in the distance seagulls wheel, cries echoing a little eerily against the bluffs. Brock takes a breath, reaches down to run his fingers through Cerb’s fur for some extra courage. 

“Hey, I, uh, just wanted to check in and see how’ve you been doing?”

He starts before he can chicken out, going for casual. Clay glances over at him. 

“I’m fine. Does it seem like I’m not fine?”

He asks laughing a little, but it’s wary. Brock eyes him carefully, trying to get a gauge on where his heads at, if he’s catching on. Treading carefully he tries again,

“First couple of missions back. Must feel different.”

Clay shrugs, wipes a hand down his face and looks back to the water.

“Feels good y’know, to be back on the job, back with you guys. Feels like I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

Brock nods, leaning back a little and following Clay’s gaze. The ocean is painfully blue, broken only by the foamy whitecaps that crest with every wave. From this far away it looks peaceful, but Brock knows how easy it is to get pulled under. Knows what it feels like to drown. It’s a long way to the bottom, when you feel alone. 

“And we’re glad to have you back.” He says, hopes Clay knows how true that is. “It’s just, it’s been a rough year for you. Getting hit in Manila, Swanny-”

As soon as Brock says Brett’s name Clay stands abruptly, pulling his cap off and pushing sweaty hair back from his face. He laughs again, that strange little not-laugh from before. 

“Listen, what is this gonna be? Some sort of touchy-feely intervention shit? ‘Cause I’m fine Brock. I’m cleared to operate. I don’t need everyone asking me if I’m okay all the time alright, Jesus. I was good before Manila and I’m good now, nothing’s changed.” 

Brock quietly watches as Clay paces tightly back and forth in front of the bench, looking a bit like a caged animal. He’s rubbing at his right leg unconsciously. Brock’s noticed he’s started to do that when he’s upset, ever since the bombing. Brock’s starting to think this is deeper then just the last couple of months though, something that goes back further then just the shit he’s been through since the Philippines. 

“Nobody would blame you if you weren’t, you know. We all have your back, no matter what.”

He says, cautiously, tentatively. Knowing he’s pushing it. Clay spins to face him then, finally stilling, and his eyes have that hollow look to them again. When he speaks it feels like a dam bursting, like something in him snapped and now it’s all rushing out in a flood he can’t keep back anymore. 

“What do you want me to say, Brock, that I can’t sleep at night anymore?” He spits, voice ragged, “That I still dream about finding Swanny in his truck, that I have nightmares about that damn bar? That I just can’t seem to stop letting down the people in my life who matter to me? What good would that do, huh, other then get me a mandatory scheduled shrink appointment and my ass on the bench. Nah man, I’m good. I’m good.” 

Brock sits and waits for him to get out it, just listening. Clay’s deflated a little by the end of his tirade, cramming his hat back on his head and rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. Mostly he just sounds tired, more then angry. A kind of bone deep exhaustion that Brock knows doesn’t go away with rest. 

“I don’t think you’re letting down the people you care about.” 

Brock offers when Clay’s finished. Clay just snorts, shaking his head and falling back down next to Brock on the bench. 

“Yeah, sure. I couldn’t hold down a relationship with the woman I loved, I got my training officer blown up, and the guy who stuck with me all through rehab shot himself in the chest in a VA parking lot while I grabbed his meds for him. Real stellar track record I got going there.”

Brock sits and thinks, then. Thinks about Brett’s funeral, what Clay had said standing by his friend’s coffin in his dress blues with shadows in his eyes. _Most of all, I’m sorry that I failed you_. Thinks about the long list of people in Clay’s life who leave and don’t come back. His dad, Brian, Adam, Stella, Swanny. The list goes on. He’s not sure which is the harder blow to bear, the ones who died or the ones who didn’t. 

“You know,” Clay says, and there’s no anger left in his voice at all now. Brock thinks it’s almost worse this way. “When Swanny-when he did what he did- and I found him in the truck. I opened the door and tried to pull him out, but my damn leg-I just fell. Couldn’t hold him up. He fell right on top of me, bleeding everywhere.” 

He doesn’t look at Brock, but he sounds more vulnerable then Brock’s ever heard from him before he thinks. 

“I couldn’t hold him up, Brock. I couldn’t even hold him up. What kind of friend am I if I can’t even do that?” 

Clay whispers. There’s something raw and bloody to his words, like scraped knees or bruised elbows. Something that feels small. A child asking for reassurance. Suddenly this feels too big for Brock, like he opened a door and wasn’t ready for what was behind it. But open it he did and now he has to deal with the consequences.

“I think you’re the kind that goes to bat for his friends.” Brock replies, “Come on, man, you’ve saved all of our asses at least once. Swann was…he was someplace you couldn’t reach him. It wasn’t on you.” 

Clay nods, runs a hand across his face. Brock pretends not to notice how wet his eyes are, instead subtly nudging Cerb in Clay’s direction with his foot. Cerberus follows the direction, sitting up and putting his head on the bench against Clay’s leg. Clay reaches out, starting to idly card his fingers through Cerb’s hair, takes a shuddering breath. 

“Yeah. Maybe. Guess I just, uh, I’m getting tired of losing people.” 

“Clay…” Brock says, gently, not sure how to put this. “We’re always going to lose people. I’m not saying it’s not tough, but it’s the job.” 

Clay sits back on the bench, and doesn’t say anything for a second. Stares out across the darkening ocean like he’s looking for an answer there. Finally he replies. 

“You know when Sonny was in that torpedo tube, all I could think about was how if I could, I’d switch our positions in a second, wouldn’t think twice about it.” 

Brock nods. He gets the feeling. It had sucked to be on the other end of the ocean from that, getting updates on whether his teammate was going to slowly drown or not. He can only imagine how much it had sucked up close and personal. Clay turns then to look at Brock, really look at him, and his eyes aren’t hollow anymore. They’re fever-bright. 

“I’d rather die then lose any of you guys,” he says, so fervently it scares Brock. “You know that right?”

Brock suddenly remembers something Jason had said about Clay, back when they were first deciding whether or not to draft him to Bravo. That he was a true believer. He sees it now, and wishes he didn’t.

“Of course.” Brock replies, trying not to sound concerned. “We all would, Clay.”

Clay nods, sniffing. 

“Yeah. Good. Good. Just, uh, just needed you to know that, y’know?” 

“Yeah, I know, brother. I know.” 

Brock says, reaching out to put a hand on Clay’s shoulder, grips it hard. He tries to ignore the unease that starts to curl in his stomach like bad tequila. Still, it eats at him all the way back to the truck. It’s not like Clay’s proclamation was that unusual, and Brock wasn’t lying when he said they all would do the same. It’s why they work in the field, because they all know they have each other’s backs. No, what unsettles him was the way Clay said. Like a promise, like an eventuality. It sets his teeth on edge. 

Brock drives Clay home and drops him off at his apartment and then sits in his truck for a long time, trying to decide whether or not he should tell Jason about the conversation, or hell, Sonny or Ray for that matter. He even types out a text message, but deletes it before he can hit send. It doesn’t seem right, to go behind Clay’s back like that. Not after he’d opened up too him. The last thing he wants to do is to make Clay feel like he can’t trust him. So he puts his phone away and drops Cerb at the kennels and goes home instead.

He goes back and forth on it for two days, and comes close to saying something half a dozen times. In the end though the decisions made for him. In the end it’s not a choice at all. On the third day they get spun up. 


	2. Chapter Two

Brock decides not to say anything before they’re wheels up. He figures Clay’s been out on a few ops with Bravo since he got cleared for duty, and he was rock solid through all of them. One more can’t hurt, and there’ll be time to think about it more afterwards. Plus it seems wrong to undermine him to Jason right before they go into the field, like a betrayal of some sorts. He’ll just keep an extra eye on Clay; make sure he doesn’t pull anything unusually stupid. It’ll be fine, he thinks. Brock regrets that decision for a long time. 

The op is back in Afghanistan, of all places. Whatever it is seems important, they only get one hour to take care of business between when they’re notified and wheels up, but command keeps whatever they’re doing in-country hushed. They bring Kairos along though, which makes Brock think bombs. If that unsettles Clay, he doesn’t show it. Then again, he’d seemed fine with hunting the bomber in Serbia too, so Brock doesn’t know how much it means. 

On the C-17 ride there Brock watches Clay from his position in the back of the plane, but he seems normal. Messing around with Sonny and Trent and Full Metal, cracking jokes. There’s none of that hollow eyed feverish intensity Brock had seen at the viewpoint a few days ago. It’s almost worrying, how well he hides what’s eating him up inside. But then, maybe that’s just what all of them do. Pretending they’re fine, shoving it down far enough that they even start to believe it themselves. It’s bigger then Brock cares to think about. 

Clay catches his eyes a few times, and after a while he ambles over, leaving the rest of the guys to talk shit on their own. He drops into a seat next to where Brock’s laid out against a supply crate, leans back. 

“Noticed you been watching me pretty careful there.” 

Brock shrugs, doesn’t confirm or deny it. Clay scratches his cheek, clasps his hands in front of him. 

“Is this because of what I said on our run the other day? ‘Cause that was just, you know, I was just tired, getting in my head about things. You don’t have to worry about me or anything.”

That’s exactly the problem though, Brock thinks, is that the more Clay tells him not to worry the more worried he gets. He tamps it down though, and gives Clay a nudge with his foot. 

“I know man, just looking out for you is all.”

“And I appreciate it brother.” Clay says, but his eyes dart down the plane towards where Ray and Jason are sitting. “You didn’t, uh, you didn’t say anything to Jase about our talk did you?” 

Brock follows his gaze, frowning. 

“I didn’t, is there something to tell him?” 

Clay laughs uncomfortably, looking relieved. 

“No, no, of course not. I just think he’s been a little over careful with me since I came back. Don’t want to set the alarm bells ringing for no reason.” 

His hand rubs at his right thigh as he talks, fingers digging into his jeans. Brock nods slowly, and for the first moment since they got spun up he starts to ask himself whether he _should_ have said something to Jason. They’re interrupted by Blackburn before he can think too hard about it. 

“Hey, we land in two hours. You guys should grab some shut-eye while you can, Davis is going to brief you on the op as soon as wheels are down.” 

“Roger that,” 

Clay says, pushing himself to his feet. With a last glance at Brock he walks away, heading for where he hung his hammockx. Brock watches him go, and tries to ignore the feeling in his gut that tells him he just made a mistake. 

It’s barely breaking daylight by the time the plane touches tarmac in J-bad. They go straight from the plane to the TOC, only making a pit stop to drop their stuff in the temporary bunks they’d been provided. Gear stowed they file one by one into the small stuffy plywood building that houses the command center. It’s familiar, but they’re different now. This time round they don’t have the ghosts of an entire Tier One team nipping at their heels, instead have they new ghosts of a different kind. Different faces to dream of at night. Sometimes Brock feels like they’ll never quite be free of it, the way there’s always something to regret. 

Blackburn leads them past the rows of workstations to the conference table. They all settle in around it, Cerb hopping up on to Brock’s lap as soon as he drops into a chair. It’s too hot for them to be this close, really, but Brock doesn’t make him get down. 

“Alright,” Lisa says, booting up the TV screen, “Let’s get into it.”

Even after a couple of missions it’s still odd to see her up there, in civvies, where Mandy used to stand. Not that Brock doesn’t think she’s doing a great job; it’s just another change. Another reminder that they aren’t what they used to be, aren’t who they used to be. The older Brock gets the more he realizes that holding on to the way things were is an easy way to tear yourself to pieces. Still, knowing that doesn’t make it easier to let go. 

“This is your target.” 

Lisa starts, pulling up a slide. A picture of an older man in traditional Afghani dress flashes on the screen, and Jason lets out a soft whistle. 

“That’s Ahmad-al Hazrat.” 

Ray says, a low hum of surprise and awe in his voice. Hazrat is one of the Haqqani network’s most prolific bomb makers, and is responsible for dozens of attacks on US and NATO forces, including one last year that killed eleven servicemen and nearly thirty civilians. He’s a nasty dude and he’s been on their hit list for years, but no one’s been able to get to him as of yet.

“You’ve netted yourself a pretty big fish there, Ensign Davis.”

Jason adds, and there’s a hint of pride in his voice. Lisa smiles, almost bashful.

“Well, we haven’t caught him yet. That’s up to you boys.”

“Yeah about that, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why aren’t they using Delta for this?” 

Clay asks, chewing on the end of a pen thoughtfully. Jason glances at him, then back over at Lisa, brow furrowing

“Good question. They’re deployed here. Why bring another team in-country?” 

Lisa sighs, glances over at Blackburn a little warily. He nods, stepping forward. 

“Four days ago Delta was ambushed while they were out kicking doors in the Haska Mina district.” 

Immediately the tension in the room increases, everyone straightening in their chairs. Brock feels his hand tighten in Cerb’s fur a little. They’d have heard something if it was bad, wouldn’t they? They’re all friends with the Delta guys, their families. 

“Casualties?”

Jason asks, tightly. Blackburn hurries to shake his head, obviously tracking where all their minds are going. 

“No casualties. There were a few injuries, but nothing bad enough to get anyone sent state side. However, they are down two guys from operational capacity for now, and given the value of this target SOCOM felt you were the best choice.”

Everyone lets out a breath as they settle back down and Brock starts to run his fingers through Cerb’s fur again, something unclenching in his chest. It feels like they’ve lost so much lately, that anymore would just be a kick while they’re down. Jason swivels in his chair, directing his attention back to the screen.

“Alright then, what’s the plan?”

“Hazrat was first spotted in the Parwan Province, about 60 klicks outside of Kabul. Yesterday, ISR had him staying in a house in the Ghorband Valley, in the foothills of the Hindu Kush.” 

Davis says, clicking to an overhead drone shot of a small compound in a wide field. On either side the ground sharply rises into forested valley slopes. 

“We’ve been monitoring the location since then. IMINT has shown six fighting age males with him, as well as a few more coming and going from the house irregularly. We don’t know how long he’s going to stay put, so we’ll be going in tonight. Hazrat barely ever leaves the tribals and this may be our one chance to grab him.” 

“We know why he risked moving into Afghanistan?” 

Trent asks. Lisa shakes her head. 

“Nothing solid. Best guess is that he’s potentially training bombers for the Taliban fighters still active in the area.”

“Well,” Jason says, pushing himself to his feet and surveying the map spread out on the table in front of them. “Doesn’t matter why he’s here. He’s not getting away. Clay, what are you thinking?”

Clay sniffs, adjusting his cap as he joins Jason. 

“They’ll hear choppers coming from miles away in a valley like that, give ‘em plenty of time to squirt. I’m thinking offset infil, we drop in here, outside the valley-”  
He says, pulling the pen out of his mouth and using it tap a spot on the map just past the ridgeline of the valley, “And then patrol on foot the two klicks in. Once we secure the HVT, we exfil in the helo, back in time for breakfast.” 

Ray frowns, eyeing the picture of the compound still up on the screen. 

“He’s a bomber, so we gotta assume the house is wired. Good chance bodyguards are going to be rockin’ s-vests too.” 

“That’s why we have our resident bomb guru with us.”

Jason says, slapping Kairos hard on the shoulder. Kairos nods.

“I’ve studied Hazrat’s work. He’s sophisticated, tends to go for remote triggering devices as opposed to pressure plates, with multiple fail safes.”

“What’s that mean, swami. Can’t handle a little heat?”

Kairos just smiles placidly at Sonny, as unruffled as ever. Brock has to respect him for that, Sonny’s able to drive even the most even-keeled temperaments to distraction but Kairos never seems bothered by his jabs. 

“I’m from California, I can handle a little heat.”

He replies mildly, and Jason grins. 

“Atta boy. Alright, plan seems solid. We’ll hit him at dark.” 

“Get some sleep,” Blackburn calls after them as they start to get up and leave, “It’s going to be a long night.” 

Brock’s more then happy to comply. He heads straight to their hooch, kicking off his shoes and climbing into the top bunk, Cerb following him to curl up by his side. Trent comes in a little while later, and eventually even Sonny crashes in his bed with a loud creak. Before he drifts off, Brock notices that Clay never makes it to his bunk. 

When he wakes up, it’s to someone calling loudly from the door. 

“Hey, up and at ‘em, need you in the TOC in five.” 

He blinks groggily, lifting his head from the pillow to see Blackburn standing in the doorway. 

“Copy that,”

Trent says, sleepily, from beneath him, and Blackburn disappears with a nod. Rubbing a hand down his face Brock sits up. When he glances across the room to the other top bunk Clay’s still not in it, and the sheets are unrumpled. 

“It’s still light outside. What time is it?”

Brock asks as he slides down the ladder, whistling for Cerb. Trent checks his watch. 

“1300. You think something’s happened?”

“It better have, if they’re wakin’ me up from my beauty sleep. ”

Sonny grumbles as he rolls ungracefully out of bed, scratching at his beard. Trent snorts, pulling his boots on. 

“Yeah, I don’t think any amount of beauty sleep’s gonna do you any good. You ever heard of lost causes Sonny?”

Sonny grunts, chucking his pillow at Trent’s head. He dodges it easily, laughing as the projectile thumps uselessly into the wall behind him. Sonny just glares huffily at them, pointing an accusing finger at Trent. 

“I’m gonna get you for that Sawyer, don’t think I won’t.” 

“Have to catch me first,” 

Trent calls over his shoulder as Brock follows him out of the hooch. Whatever Sonny’s probably rude reply consists of is cut off as the door swings shut behind them and Brock smiles to himself. They run into Ray and Jason as they walk to the TOC, falling into step beside them. 

“You know what this is about?”

Brock asks, but they both shake their heads, looking just as confused as he and Trent are. 

Clay and Full Metal are already in the TOC when they arrive, both looking sweaty and red-faced and sipping out of water bottles. Even from across the room Brock can nearly see the tension thrumming off of Clay. Kairos wanders in a second later, from wherever it is that Kairos goes. Probably meditating away his negative energy or something. Sonny slouches after him, making a sour face at Trent who tries unsuccessfully to hide a chuckle. Once they’re all gathered, Jason speaks up, grabbing the coffee pot from where it’s sitting on the table next to them and pouring a mug.

“So anyone want to tell us going on?

Blackburn and Davis both look grim. 

“There’s an update on the HVT.” Blackburn says, and Brock gets the feeling whatever it is it’s not good. “SIGINT says he’s planning to head back to Pakistan today. Sometime in the next few hours. He’ll be long gone before tonight’s raid.” 

Jason grimaces as he passes a cup of coffee to Ray, sighing. 

“We burned? Is that what spooked him?”

Ray asks, accepting the mug. Lisa shakes her head, folding her arms across her chest. 

“No, doesn’t like it. Hazrat’s wife has been sick. Apparently her condition has taken a turn for the worse, and he’s heading back in case she passes.” 

“Aw, our bomber’s a family man.”

Sonny says snidely, chewing on a toothpick he’s produced from somewhere. Brock has no clue where he hides those things, not sure if he wants too. 

“Okay, but if we’re not burned then we can still go ahead with the op. We leave now we might be able to grab him before he rabbits.” 

Clay interrupts, sounding impatient and restless. Brock glances over at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. His eyes are bright and sharp, something a shade softer then desperation in them. Desperate for what Brock isn’t sure. 

“Woah, slow your roll there Spenser, we’re talking about a daylight raid here. It’s risky.”

Ray interjects, giving Clay a wary look, dark brows furrowed. Blackburn nods. 

“It’s exposed territory, not a lot of cover. Your call, Jason.”

Jason takes a slow breath, rubbing at his beard as he surveys the images on the Toughbook in front of him. After a second he slaps his hand down on the table. 

“Clay’s right, plan still works. I say we do it. Hit ‘em hard and fast.” 

Clay grins, reaching out to slap a hand against Jason’s shoulder. 

“Damn straight, can’t let this asshole walk.”

Blackburn watches quietly, arms crossed and one eyebrow slightly quirked. If Clay’s eagerness concerns him he doesn’t bring it up, just says. 

“Alright, let’s do this boys. Go get jocked up. Bus leaves in 15.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most exciting chapter I know, but ya gotta do that set up. Next chap things start to kick off!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, basically this chapter got very long and I had to split it into two parts. But! The second half is mostly written now so it's going up tomorrow, and I think it'll be worth a little extra wait ;) thanks for sticking with the story and enjoy!

Jocking up is a loud and raucous process. All of them making jokes, talking loud. It’s usually like this before ops, everyone amped on adrenaline and nerves, shoving each other around. The bigger the op the bigger the insults. Brock’s content to pull his gear on quietly, taking the time to double-check Cerb’s body armor. He keeps an eye on Spenser, too. He’s not joining in on the shit-talking like he normally does, instead keeping his head down as he gives his HK416 a once over. Brock frowns, watches as he checks the safety once, twice, three times in a row. He looks- not nervous exactly, but tense. Wired. Jason must notice too because he raps the table in front of him with his knuckles. Clay’s head jerks up, 

“Hey, Spenser, where’s your head at.”

Jason asks. Clay meets Jason’s gaze and doesn’t look away.

“Right here boss.” 

Jason eyes him a second longer before nodding. 

“Okay. Good. Keep it there.” 

Clay nods, dropping his head and checking his weapon again almost obsessively. Brock frowns. Before he can decide whether or not to talk to him Blackburn pokes his head in the doorway, knocking sharply on the door. 

“You ready? Your ride is leaving.” 

“Yeah, we’re ready.” 

Jason says, looking around the room. There’s a chorus of assent. 

“Alrighty boys, let’s go catch ourselves a bomb-maker!”

Sonny calls, as they all start to grab their gear and head out to the gates where the shuttle is waiting. As they board the bus Brock reaches out to give the tiny bobblehead on the dash a light tap. Clay gets on right after him, and Brock grabs a seat just in time to watch him smack it hard enough that it almost goes flying. 

“Woah there, Spenser.” Jason says, eyebrows lifting, “Don’t break the creature, it’s bad luck.”

“Yeah,” Sonny drawls from the seat behind Brock. “Last guy who knocked the creature over got smoked two days later, had to pick him up in pieces I heard.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a better operator then he was.”

Clay says stiffly, sitting down in the seat across the aisle from Brock, eyes locked ahead of him. It’s odd, he’d seemed so eager in the command center, but now he’s settled into something different. Something harder. The switch is a little unsettling, if Brock’s honest with himself. 

“Knock it off Sonny,” Ray calls, “Last thing we need right now is your superstitious bullshit.”

“Hey, I resent that remark.” Sonny shoots back, “It’s not ‘superstitious bullshit’ as you so graciously called it, it’s tradition. You don’t mess with tradition.” 

The ride to the airfield is tense, as the weight of what they’re about to do fully settles on them. Brock scratches Cerb’s ears and stares out the window and pretends he’s not watching Clay out of the corner of his eye. If Clay notices, he doesn’t say anything, just stares ahead of him, one hand rubbing idly at his leg. Brock wants to say something, but gets the sense that it’s too late now. 

They load up onto the helo. Brock sitting with Cerb halfway in his lap to make sure there’s room as the rest of Bravo piles in, and then they’re off, ground falling away beneath their feet. The dusty beige landscape of Afghanistan speeds by beneath them at 220 miles an hour, blurring into a shapeless stream of rock and road and brush. It’s strangely peaceful up here Brock has found. In the moments before and after. From this high up everything below looks like a toy, like it can’t hurt you. Of course, that fantasy only lasts for so long, as they’ve all learned from brutal experience. Still, it’s nice to imagine for a little bit. 

They touch down at their drop point without incident, sliding out of the helo quickly and efficiently, and start the two klick hike to the compound. 

“TOC to Brave One, your helo is in loiter pattern. Good luck.” 

Blackburn reports, voice crackling over the radio waves.

The terrain quickly becomes steep as they move up the outside slope of the valley, heading for the ridgeline. Brock’s soon sweating under the full weight of his gear and the relentless heat of an Afghani summer sun. When they pause for a second halfway up, he makes sure Cerb gets some water, giving him a quick scratch before they start moving again. It takes about twenty minutes total to crest the ridgeline and start their descent down the other side into the forest. The benefit to the wooded slopes is that no one will see them coming, and it’s a few degrees cooler under the shade of the trees. 

“TOC, this is Bravo One. Passing Wilson,”

Jason says quietly as they move through the forest. Sunlight filters through the leaves and casts dappled shadows across the ground. It’s beautiful, in a perverse sort of way. As they get closer to the bottom of the valley Brock feels the tension grow, adrenaline kicking in and making every sense sharper.

When they reach the edge of the tree line they separate into two teams. Jason taking Trent and Full Metal and Kairos, heading further north up the valley to flank the back of the house while the rest of them settle in where they are for a frontal assault. Brock eyes the target, taking in the lay out. It looks much like it did in the overhead photos they’ve been working off, a squat building of middling size in the center of a field. There’s a small outbuilding to the northwest of the house, probably to house farming equipment, and a dilapidated looking truck parked to the east. The curtains are drawn over the windows, and nothing moves. All in all, it looks quiet. This is the moment it always clicks for Brock, the crystal clear second just before the bullets fly, when he settles into the place that lets him do his job. It’s easy there, simple. 

“All bravo elements, be advised ISR shows two combatants patrolling along the eastern edge of the compound.”

Lisa says. 

“Good copy TOC,” Jase acknowledges, voice crackling over the comms. “Bravo two, you got eyes?”

Ray moves forward, taking a knee in the dust and bringing up his rifle, sighting through the scope. 

“Yeah, I see ‘em. Six and I can do a simultaneous take-down, hit them both at the same time.”

Brock follows his gaze to see two men with AK’s coming around the east corner of the building, chatting idly with one another, seemingly unaware of what’s about to happen to them. 

“Copy that. We’ll go on your call two.” 

Jason replies. Clay moves forward, settling in beside Ray and adjusting his scope. A second later both men go down silently. 

“Bravo one, target’s are eliminated, moving to breach.”

Ray says, already pushing forward out of the tree line. Brock picks up and moves after him, staying low. As they get closer to the target the only movement is the faded red of a curtain as it flaps slightly in the breeze in the open window, everything else totally, eerily still. 

When they’re about a 70 meters that stillness shatters as a spray of bullets bite into the ground around them, sending up bits of dirt and plant matter. Brock tracks it back to the house to see a third tango in the window shooting at them, tearing holes in the red curtain. 

“Troops in contact, contact front!”

Clay shouts, returning fire. Brock follows suit, keeping Cerberus behind his body as they push forward. A second later the tango falls below the windowsill, head snapping back in a spray of blood as someone lands a hit. 

“One, this is two. They know we’re here, boss.”

Ray says, a little breathless, as they pull up to the front of the building, Clay and Sonny dropping into defensive positions beside the door. 

“Copy that, moving to breach point in back. Waiting for confirmation from the K9.”

Jason says. Ray look back at Brock, jerks his head to the door. Brock nods, gives a light tug at Cerb’s leash, 

“ _Suchs_ ,”

He whispers, unclipping the leash. Cerb’s off like a shot, sniffing along the front side of the building. Once he reaches the front door he drops his hind quarters, looking back at Brock proudly. 

“We got explosives,”

He says to Ray. Ray nods sharply, 

“Bravo one, looks like the door is wired. We’re gonna need an alternate infil route.” 

“I say we through a nine-banger through the window, see what comes crawling out.”

Sonny calls, sounding overly excited about the prospect of causing chaos. Ray considers it for a second, keying his radio. 

“Boss, it ain’t actually such a bad idea. We throw one in, see what squirts out the back to you.” 

Clay glances back, grinning a little.

“Watch out guys, we’re calling Sonny’s ideas good now, must be the end days.” 

Brock gives him smile, laughing a little despite himself. This feels like the Clay he’s used to, cracking jokes, making fun of Sonny. Not that strange stiff one from before.

“Yeah, yeah okay. Do it.”

Comes Jason’s response a second later. Ray turns, 

“Sonny, you’re up. Clay, cover him.”

Sonny grins, already pulling the flashbang out of his hip pouch. 

“Thought you’d never ask,”

He drawls as he and Clay move to the window the tango had been lighting them up out of. Sonny pulls the tab on the stun grenade, then pops up like a meerkat and chucks it in the window before ducking down again, Clay hands him another and he repeats the process. They go off, loud enough to make Brock’s ears ring, and smoke starts to emerge from the house along with loud panicked yelling in arabic. 

“Alright, flashbangs in Bravo one, they should be headed to you.”

Ray says, loudly enough to be heard over the chaos. 

“Copy that.”

Jason replies. The comms have barely finished crackling on his last word when a sharp burst of gunfire erupts from the back of the building. 

“Sonny, go see if they need help. We’ll pull security here.”

Ray says, and Sonny nods, disappearing around the corner. Whatever’s popping off at the back doesn’t go on for very long, and after about a minute the gunfire dies down. 

“Bravo one to TOC, passing Brady, we have jackpot.”

Jason says, sounding a little breathless but triumphant. Brock glances over at Clay to see how he takes it, but his eyes are focused out towards the east slope of the valley, brow furrowed. Brock follows his gaze and sees nothing but trees. 

“Bravo one, good copy. Be advised your helo had some technical difficulties and is RTB. We’ll get a replacement out to you ASAP, sit tight.” 

“Good copy HAVOC, give us some time to check out the house too, see if there’s any CSS to grab for you Davis.” Jason replies over the comms, almost teasingly. “Bravo One, get your team over here. We’re gonna clear the rest of the house.” 

“Copy that, six”

Ray says, as they start to move around to the back of the house. Clay reluctantly tears his eyes away from the hill, and Brock wonders what he was looking for. They find Jason and the rest of Bravo standing around by the back door. Full Metal’s got Hazrat in a tight grip, the man’s hands ziptied tightly behind his back. There’s the body’s of two other guys lying on the ground, and Brock sees the telltale bulge around the waist of an S-vest on one of them. 

“Caught ourselves that big fish, boys.”

Full Metal says with a grin as they round the corner, reaching out to bump fists with Jason. Jason pushes his helmet up on his head, gestures to Hazrat. 

“Alright, Full Metal, Trent, you stay out here. Babysit our new friend. Rest of you, on me, lets get this house cleared. Kairos, stay sharp, he might have left us some presents inside.” 

They form up on Jason, and quickly move through the doorway into the dim light of the farmhouse. It’s small, only three rooms, and it takes them about a 30 seconds to sweep through and confirm there are no enemies left except for the slumped lifeless corpse of the tango who’d been firing at them out the window. The air is hazy and still smells faintly of the metallic hot bite of magnesium and coppery blood, and Brock wrinkles his nose at the scent. 

“Hey,” Kairos calls from one of the other rooms. “Come check this out.” 

Brock follows Jason and Clay over to the small adjoining room of the main living space. The EOD tech is kneeling front of a computer, eyeing it carefully. 

“What is it?”

Clay asks, giving the laptop a suspicious look. Kairos points to the thick bundles of wire that run out of it and long the back of the desk. 

“It’s wired, probably so if someone tries to grab it, boom. We all go up.” 

“Can you defuse it?”

Jason asks a little impatiently. Kairos nods slowly, inspecting the set up discerningly.

“Yeah, looks like this was a rush job, not very careful. Give me five.” 

Jason slaps him on the back. 

“Alright, do it. TOC, EOD is recovering a computer found on site. What’s the ETA on that helo?”

“Bravo one good copy, extract helo is 30 mikes out.” 

Beside Brock Clay shifts. He’s got that look on his face Brock recognizes, the one that means he’s sitting on something and just waiting for the right moment to spit it out. Jason notices it too. 

“Hey, what are you thinking.”

Clay shrugs. 

“Davis said they clocked six dudes travelling with the HVT, so far I count we’ve shwacked five.” 

“Yeah, well lot of reasons they could be down one. Last guy could be out in town getting supplies, could be meeting someone. If they’re around they’ve been awful quiet.” 

Ray reasons. Sonny speaks up from where he’s been leaning casually against the doorjam. 

“Or taking a shit in the forest, a man needs his privacy y’know.” 

Clay shakes his head. 

“Maybe.”

But it’s clear from his tone he doesn’t think so. Jason eyes him thoughtfully, but before he can reply Kairos straightens, lifting the laptop off of the desk. 

“We’re good to go boss.” 

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Jase says, “We’re gonna move the HVT to the exfil point, get ready for the helo. Clay, you go check out your hunch, take Brock with you.” 

“I’ll go with them, Jase. If Clay’s got a feeling I trust it.” 

Ray offers, moving up to stand next to Clay who shoots him a grateful glance. 

“Yeah, okay. You got five mikes and then you head to the LZ.”

Jason orders, 

“Roger that boss.” 

Clay’s already heading for the door, face focused. Brock follows, clicking his tongue for Cerb and clipping his leash back on.

“Five mikes, Ray,”

Jason calls after them as the exit into the daylight. Clay leads them back to the front of the house, to where the truck is parked. Swinging his 416 up he rests it on the hood of the car, using the scope to survey the hillside. 

“What are you looking for?”

Ray asks, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. Brock follows suit, squinting against the glare. 

“Earlier, when we were out here, thought I saw something in the trees.”

Clay says slowly, voice focused. Brock searches, but all he sees is the gentle wave of green leaves in the breeze. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ray seems similarly confused but they wait, letting Clay do his thing. They’ve learned to trust his instincts, if he says he thinks something’s off then it’s worth a few extra minutes. 

Ray’s just opening his mouth to call it quits when Clay’s scope stills, and Brock sees his eyes widen. Abruptly he spins, waving his arm frantically as he goes for his radio. 

“Get down, get behind cover! They’ve got a DsHK in the trees!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking into military/police dog handling for this chapter and apparently Brock uses a weird blend of english and german commands with Cerberus, including the ever iconic 'phooey'.


	4. Chapter Four

Brock ducks behind the truck, pulling Cerb with him. As soon as the last words leave Clay’s mouth bullets bite into the front of the vehicle, sending glass flying as the windshield pops and shatters. Ray slides down next to Brock, his quick entry raising small puffs of dust. 

“This motherfucker is spraying the whole damn field.” He grinds out, reaching up to his comms. “Bravo one, this is two, you good?”

Jason’s reply comes back almost immediately. 

“Bravo two, we’re pinned down behind the shed. HVT took a bullet to the neck, four’s working on him.”

“Dammit,” Ray curses again curtly, “Why the hell’d this guy wait so long to make his move, we were all standing around in this field holding our thumbs for ages.” 

Clay looks down briefly from where he’s still posted up by the hood of the truck, crouched down low. 

“Probably was waiting for Hazrat. Guy’s got years of Tali intel in his head, better off dead then captured in their eyes.” 

Brock thinks that’s very cold. Imagines giving years of your life to something, only to be gunned down by your own people when shit hits the fan. No one’s going around saying terrorists are good people, but still. Even for terrorists it’s pretty low. 

“Should we return fire?”

Brock asks, putting the moral quandary away for later. Ray just shakes his head. 

“Nah, better to conserve what you have. This guys got the high ground, cover in the trees, no way we’re going to land a hit on him. Just make ourselves an easy target if we tried.” 

“All Bravo elements, you appear to have stopped, request sitrep?”

Lisa’s voice crackles over the comms, sounding alarmed. 

“TOC this is Bravo two. These guys have a DShK somewhere in the forest on the eastern slope of the valley, we’re pinned in the field.”

Ray replies, choppy and urgent as bullets continue to fly in a hail over their heads. From the opposite end of the field someone returns fire. 

“I recommend you get a move on quick,” Blackburn replies, and even through the static of the radio waves Brock can tell that he’s bracing himself for what he’s going to say next. “All bravo elements be advised you have what appears to be two enemy technicals approaching from the west, at least a dozen fighters. They will be at your pos in approximately 15 mikes.” 

For half a second no one says anything. They all look at each other, a silent grim understanding passing between them. The helo’s not going to make it in time, and they’re pinned down and vulnerable, stuck between the frying pan and the fire. They can make a break for and get torn to pieces by the heavy artillery or wait where they are and get hammered by a force nearly twice their numbers. Lose or lose, dealers choice. 

“TOC, you got any other options for us,” Jason says, sounding a little breathless, “I’m not liking our odds here.”

“Copy that, we’re looking. Sit tight.” 

Blackburn says, and Brock winces at the turn of phrase. Clay ducks down beside Brock, looking past him to Ray. 

“We gotta get rid of this guy, we’re screwed if we stay where we are.” He says urgently, “Let me make a run at him.”

Ray shakes his head, lips pressed together in a fine line. 

“No way you’d make it. Blackburn and Davis’ll find something, so let’s do what they say and sit tight.”

Clay opens his mouth to protest but Ray silences him with a look. 

“Sit _tight_ Clay.” 

Clays lips snap shut, jaw working with frustration. Brock reaches out and gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder, but Clay barely acknowledges it, turning away to look up the hill again. A few seconds later Blackburn’s voice comes back on the comms. 

“All Bravo elements, Davis found a marine platoon doing routine patrols outside of Kabul, rerouting it to your position now. ETA is twenty mikes.” 

“Great,” Sonny says over the radio. “They’ll be here in right in time to pick up whatever bits and pieces are left of us.”

Clay looks over at Ray again, blue eyes intense.

“He’s not wrong. The QRF isn’t going to get here in time.”

He says, almost quietly. Ray shakes his head. 

“Clay, we’re not having this discussion alright.”

“I’m the fastest,” Clay continues like he hadn’t even heard him, “I can make it up the hill, take out the nest, if you cover me.”

Ray just gives him a look that clearly states he thinks Clay’s crazy. Brock has to agree. He keeps quiet, doesn’t say the words that run in circles in his head. You _were_ the fastest. 

“Clay, you’re talking about running up a steep incline through trees to a position that is defended by heavy _artillery_. Doesn’t matter how fast you are, that’s suicide. Answer is no.” 

Ray says, voice final. Clay’s frown deepens, and he opens his mouth to protest. Before he can though another volley of bullets bites into the dust a few meters away from their position and they duck further down behind their cover. Blackburn calls for a sitrep, which Ray answers. The same as before, FUBAR. 

Clay glances at Brock then for a second, while Ray’s distracted, and there’s this look in his eyes. It’s almost apologetic, landing somewhere between resignation and relief, and immediately Brock just knows. Knows he’s going to do it anyway. Knows that he doesn’t care that it’s suicide. Clay’s words from their conversation in the park echo hollowly in his ears, _I’d rather die then lose any of you_. He wants to say something, wants to tell him no, tell him they'll find another way, but the words are trapped in his throat. 

“Sorry Broccoli,” Clay whispers, offering him half a smile, then keys his radio, “Bravo six moving.”

Brock reaches out for him like he can grab Clay and keep him here but his fingers close on nothing. Clay’s already gone, barreling towards the tree line and leaving Brock with a handful of air and a pit growing in his stomach. Beside him Ray curses. 

“God _dammit_ Clay.”

Jason’s voice rattles through their comms a second later. 

“Bravo two, where the hell is Bravo six moving too?”

“Made a break for the forest, he’s trying to take the gunner.” Ray say shortly, swinging his rifle up. “Brock, cover him, or his suicidal ass is done for.” 

Any response Jason might have had is lost in the deafening clatter, as they lay down cover fire until Clay disappears into the trees. As soon as he’s gone they both duck back down behind their cover as the gunner focuses in on their position. Brock feels vaguely numb, a dull sense of shock ringing in his head. Clay was there, and then he wasn’t, and Brock could have stopped it but he didn’t.

They wait, and Brock tries to time it out in his head. After thirty seconds Clay’s probably still making his way up the hill, a minute he’s probably made it to the gunner’s position. At a minute and thirty seconds the DShK stops firing. He and Ray exchanges glances. 

“Maybe Clay got him,”

He ventures quietly. Ray just looks grim. 

“Yeah, or maybe he’s taking a break trying to kill us to put a bullet in Spenser.” 

Brock swallows hard, they wait some more. The gunfire doesn’t pick up again. At two minutes fifteen seconds their radios crackle to life. 

“Tango down. Heading back to you, two mikes out.”

Clay says, a little winded, but undeniably alive. Brock lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, slumping back against the truck.

“Copy that Bravo six.” Ray says, sounding as relieved as Brock feels. “Bravo one, you’re clear to move across the field.”

“Good copy, coming to you.”

Jason replies. Ray shakes his head, 

“I’m going to kick his ass once he gets back. The hell was he thinking pulling a move like that…”

Brock doesn’t say that he’s pretty sure Clay wasn’t thinking at all, and that if he was it wasn’t about his own chances. One minute passes, then two, and still there’s no sign of Clay. Brock feels his gut start to clench again.

“Should we go after him?”

He asks, but Ray shakes his head slowly, eyes locked on the bottom of the hill. 

“Nah, give him a second.” 

As if on cue a few seconds later Spenser emerges from the line of the forest. There’s a brief moment of relief, before Brock realizes why he was behind schedule. He’s stumbling, moving from tree to tree like they’re the only things keeping him upright. As he gets closer Brock can see there’s something dark staining the bottom of his shirt, his side. Beside him Ray seems to notice the same thing. 

“Shit, is that blood?”

By now Clay’s close enough to tell that it is blood, and a lot of it. Too much of it. Brock’s already moving forward, Cerb at his heels and Ray a step behind as he keys his radio.

“Bravo Four, we need you over here ASAP, looks like six may have taken a hit.” 

Ray’s voice sounds distant, even though he’s right there. Brock reaches Clay just in time to catch him as he falters, starts to go down. His full weight pulls both of them onto their knees hard, one of Clay’s hands clutching white knuckled at Brock’s arm. Ray arrives next to him a half a second later, getting on Clay’s other side to help lower him the rest of the way. When Clay pulls his hand away it leaves behind a bloody smear on the tan camo print of Brock’s sleeve. They’ve just got him down on his back when Trent arrives.

“Jason and the rest are right behind,” Trent says as he skids to his knees beside them, panting a little from his sprint across the field and snapping on a pair of gloves. “Any idea?”

“No, just got to him.”

Ray reports, moving to make space for the medic. Trent starts to run his hands over Clay’s chest, looking for the wound. 

“Where the fuck is all this blood coming from,” Trent mutters, sliding a hand under Clay’s vest that comes out clean, “Clay, talk to me man, where you hit.” 

Clay blinks up at him, eyes shocky and blank. 

“Right, uh, right side. Guy had a friend.” 

Before Trent even asks Ray and Brock are rolling Clay onto his left shoulder, steadying him. Almost immediately it’s clear to see where the problem is. Clay’s shirt, in between the plates of his vest, is completely drenched with blood. Trent pulls out a pair of shears, starts to cut open his shirt, sucks a breath in. 

“And his friend had a knife, huh.”

Brock peaks over his shoulder and feels vaguely sick. There’s at least two stab wounds in Clay’s side he can pinpoint, both pulsing bright red blood over Trent’s fingers. When Clay shifts a little he sees a white flash of bone in the deeper cut, probably one of his ribs. There’s the sound of footsteps on dry earth behind them and Brock glances over his shoulder to see Jason and Sonny approaching, Kairos and Full Metal a couple of meters behind them. They don’t have Hazrat with them anymore, Brock notes vaguely. Sonny’s eyes widen a little as he takes in the gruesome scene, jaw tightening. In fear or anger Brock can’t tell, they sit pretty similarly on Sonny. 

“Sonny, Metal, Kairos, Ray, pull security. Trent, give me an update.”

Jason barks. Trent doesn’t look away from Clay’s side. 

“Brock, I need an ABD dressing.” He directs, voice urgent as he starts to pull off Clay’s vest, before he answers Jason. “He’s got, uh, three abdominal lacs, too low for the heart but could have hit the lungs, the liver. Won’t be able to tell till doctors get a look at him. Seems like arterial bleeding, probably one of the intercostal arteries.” 

Brock scrambles to obey, rifling through Trent’s bag for the dressing. He leaves bloody finger marks on everything he touches, red and stark against the packaging. Wordlessly he hands the abdominal bandage to Trent when he finds it, goes back to holding Clay up on his side as Trent tears open the package and starts to press the dressing against Clay’s wounds. It soaks through with red frighteningly quickly. 

“TOC, this is Bravo one. Six is down, rendering aid, and the HVT is dead. How far out is that QRF?”

Jason asks, voice wound tight with emotion. 

“Copy Bravo one, QRF is still fourteen mikes out. Be advised, ISR shows enemy combatants are still headed your way, you got about six mikes till they show up to the party.” 

“Jase, we gotta get him out of here. Another firefight is not what we need right now.” 

Ray says tensely from where he’s kneeling alongside Sonny, eyes on the horizon and gun up. Jason runs a hand anxiously down his beard, nods. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but QRF’s not going to get here before our friends do.” He grimaces, spinning in place. “ _Dammit._ Okay, let’s get him in the house, dig in there. We just gotta hold out for a few minutes.”  
  
There’s a few second where nobody budges, frozen in a sort of horrible tableau, but then Jason claps his hands together loudly. 

“Come on, let’s move!”

He shouts. They move. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broccoli is the cutest nickname and I've literally been waiting this whole fic for the perfect place to sprinkle it in.


	5. Chapter Five

“Brock, help me get him up. You get high, I’ll go low.”

Trent directs, shoving gear back into his pack. Brock nods mutely, shifts into place at Clay’s head. Cerberus whines at his side, smelling the blood, and he shushes him as he loops his arms under Clay’s armpits. Clay’s eyes are still open, staring blankly at the sky above him. It reminds Brock of the way he’d looked lying on the sidewalk in Manila. There, but not there. 

“Alright, I’ll say when. One, two, three, _up_.”

Trent counts off tightly, and on three they both heave Clay up, Trent reaching forward with one hand to keep pressure. Clay groans a little, flinching, and Brock murmurs a soft apology as they start to jog towards the house, feet sending up puffs of dust with every step. It’s quiet now that the DShK’s not firing anymore, and the absence of it rings loudly in Brock’s ears. Not loud enough to drown out the sounds of pain Clay can’t choke back with every jolt though. 

They go around back because the front door is still wired. The bodies of Hazrat’s men are laying where they left them, and Brock has to pick his way through a mess of limbs as they round the corner. Sonny runs ahead to hold the door open for them and they maneuver Clay through the doorway, pushing forward into the building. It doesn’t smell like smoke anymore, just copper, thick and heavy and cloying. Once they’re inside they set Clay carefully down in the open living space on a bedroll someone had left unrolled on the ground. 

“Alright, Kairos deal with the front door, don’t want a stray bullet blowing us all to hell. Metal, get that body out of here.” Jason snaps, settling into efficiency, “TOC, how are we looking on time.”

“Technical’s are five mikes out.” 

Is the immediate response. Jason sniffs, eyes flickering to where Brock and Trent kneel by Clay on the floor. 

“And the QRF?”

There’s the slightest hesitation before Blackburn replies. 

“Eleven mikes.” 

“Good copy TOC. We’re digging in at the farmhouse.” 

“Here,” Trent says choppily, pulling Brock’s attention back from where Jason paces frenetically a few feet away. “Hold pressure here.” 

He directs Brock’s hands to the bloody mess that is Clay’s side and Brock follows his instructions, pressing down hard even as Clay shifts away from him. 

“Hey,” he whispers, in what he hopes is a calming tone, “I know this hurts, but I gotta do it.” 

Clay nods a little, eyes cracking open to meet Brock’s gaze. 

“S’not your fault.” 

He slurs, pain lacing his words. Brock feels his stomach clench.

“How’s he doing?”

Jason asks, coming to crouch beside Brock. Trent looks up from where he’s searching with controlled urgency through his aid pack for something. 

“Losing a lot of blood. He’s not going to make it to exfil if he keeps dumping it at this rate, his systolic’s in the tank. I’m going to give him a transfusion, should buy us some time.”

Jason nods. 

“Okay. Do it. Everyone else, let’s get ready for company.” 

There’s a flurry of movement behind them, but Brock ignores it. Focuses in on what he can do now. Focuses on what he can do for Clay. He looks over to Trent in askance. 

“Get the injection site prepped.”

Trent orders, handing Brock scissors and a wad of gauze. Brock takes them, swiftly cutting the front of Clay’s shirt open. His chest is heaving and pale, covered in a fine sheen of sweat and smears of blood from his t-shirt. Brock wipes down his sternum with the gauze, trying to be gentle. 

“Ready.” 

He says when he’s finished, and Trent nods, moving up and around and positioning Clay’s head in between his knees. 

“This is going to pinch a little, Spense, but we’re going to give you some morphine in just a sec okay?”

He says as he rips open the packaging on the Fast1. Clay nods slowly. He still looks shocky, but his eyes are clearer, whole face tight with pain. Brock prefers it to the eerie stillness of earlier. 

“Hey, you know Ray’s going to kick your ass when this is over right?” 

He says jokingly, trying to distract Clay a little as Trent preps the transfusion. Trent looks up from where he’s peeling the cover off the base of the IO to give Brock a grateful look. For his part Clay manages a grin. 

“Yeah, well. Worth it.” 

He forces out between short pained breathes, and somehow it doesn’t make Brock feel any better. Trent finishes up before Brock can think of a response. carefully aligning the adhesive base with the sternal notch he puts both hands on the handle, and then with a quick practiced push forces the cluster of needles through Clay’s skin. He grunts once, biting down hard on his lip. 

“Alright, that’s it, it’s done okay.” Trent says, giving Clay a quick comforting pat on the shoulder as he pulls the casing off, “Brock, give him some morphine before we push the blood.”

Brock nods, unzipping his med pouch and pulling out an autoinjector. Yanking off the cap he finds the meaty part of Clay’s thigh and jabs the needle in, depressing the injector. Almost immediately some of the tension drains out of his body, lines of pain easing a little as his eyes start to cloud over. As soon as Brock sets the injector aside Trent’s handing Brock the blood bag, working to attach the line to the infusion tube in Clay’s chest. 

“Find somewhere to hang this,” 

He says tightly, looping the IV line through the strain-relief hook to keep the pressure off it. Brock glances around and finds a bent nail sticking out of the wall beside where Clay is laying, hooks the loop of the bag around it. 

“What else can I do?” 

He asks as soon as he’s done, hovering anxiously. 

“Spike the bag, get it primed.”

Trent orders, barely bothering to look up from where he’s adding more bandages to the growing sodden lump on Clay’s side. Brock swallows hard and does what Trent says before moving back. Trent checks it over quickly, then opens the roller clamp at the bottom of the line and gives the bag a quick squeeze to get the blood started. Slowly it starts to move down the line and into Clay’s chest, like a scarlet ribbon. It’ll keep him alive. It has too. 

Trent sits back on his heels finally, taking a short breath. Brock notices his sleeves are smeared with blood almost up to the elbow, gloved hands slick with it. It’s bright against the dusty faded contents of the farmhouse, red like the curtain, and he has to work to tear his eyes away from it. 

Jason’s back again, fingers tapping incessantly as Trent pushes himself to his feet. 

“Sitrep?”

He asks, tightly.

“Got the transfusion going. He’s stable for now, but we gotta get him out of here or he’s not going to last long. That blood is a band-aid, and I used the rest of my supply on the HVT.”

Trent says grimly. Jason nods.

“Yeah, well, as soon as the marine platoon gets here we’re rolling. We’ll get him out.” 

Trent starts to reply but before he can get the words out Sonny shouts from by the window. 

“Contact front, contact front!” 

The warning is followed closely by the sound of gunfire, and everybody ducks down low as the small farmhouse shakes, Brock pitching forward to cover Clay as furniture shatters and shrapnel goes flying. 

“TOC, this is Bravo One we have troops in contact, how far out is QRF?” 

Jason yells, into his radio, pushing forward towards the window. 

“Copy Bravo one, the marines are five mikes out.” 

It’s soon. But is it soon enough? Brock pushes the thought aside as soon as it surfaces. It will be. It has to be. 

As the team starts to return fire the hail of bullets tearing up the inside of the room lessens a little, and Brock draws back. Clay blinks up at him, morphine making him hazy, but still together enough to realize something’s happening. 

“Brock, what’s going on?”

He asks, voice fragile. Brock swings his 416 around off his back, looking up to where the rest of Bravo is clustered along the front wall of the room. 

“We’re taking fire, the party showed up.”

He replies, briefly. Clay’s eyes widen a little and he starts to try to sit himself up on shaky arms. Brock jumps forward to push him back onto the mat again, shaking his head. 

“I can help, Brock, you gotta let me help.”

Clay says earnestly, like he’s not white as a sheet and too weak to sit up on his own. Like a tenth of his blood supply isn’t soaked into the floor and Trent’s sleeves and the bandages on his side. And _fuck_ , Brock should have seen this coming, he should have said something. But it’s to late for that, and Brock can only deal with the situation now.  
  
“Hey, hey, Clay,” He says, soft but firm and trying to hide the fear that claws at his throat. “Clay listen to me, you did your part. Now just stay down, will you? Let us do ours.”

Clay doesn’t listen though, trying weakly to push aside the restraining hand on his shoulder. Something inside Brock snaps, then. The fear and guilt and adrenaline blending together into something more then he can handle. He remembers the way that Clay whispered his name, just before he ran for the trees, _sorry Broccoli_. Sorry Broccoli, like he’d turned down an invitation for a night out, or forgotten to pick up beer for the barbecue. Like it didn’t even matter that he was about to run out into a literal hail of bullets. The nickname, so affectionate, made for places of comfort and safety, is what undoes him.

“You’ll die.” He snaps, voice brittle and angry and more then anything terrified. “Don’t you get that? You’ll die Clay. And I can’t-you can’t die. So just stay the fuck down, _please_.” 

He inhales deeply when he’s finished, breath catching in his throat. Clay looks up at him speechless for a second, eyes wide and a little stunned. From somewhere behind them Ray calls Brock’s name sharply. 

“I gotta go.” He says, trying to get himself back under control, trying to find the clarity he usually carries with him. “Just…don’t do anything stupid.”

Then he’s gone, moving towards the window, towards the fight. He pulls up next to Trent, who even in the midst of a firefight manages to give him a look. 

“You good?” 

He asks, shouting to be heard over the chaos. Brock just nods, popping up over the windowsill. His shot nails an insurgent in the chest, sends him falling backwards in a spray of pink mist. Brock takes a grim satisfaction in it, one he’ll probably regret later. He’s not like Sonny, he doesn’t get a thrill from the violence or the killing, not really. And he loves his team like they’re his brothers, but he thinks sometimes that they’re very different. Brock didn’t join up because he was angry, or afraid, or running from something. Didn’t join because he had something to prove. He does what he does because a long time ago he made a list of all the things that mattered to him, his parents, his sisters, his friends, his home, and he thought I want to keep them safe. I want them to be happy. And this seemed like the best way do it at the time. Most days he still thinks so. Most days he keeps his head down and does his job well and feels pretty damn good about it too. 

Right now though, he can’t stop thinking about Clay. About what a waste it would be if he died on the dirty floor of this tiny farmhouse. How horribly unfair it would be to lose him like this. But he _can’t_ think about that right now, not when he has to be focused, be present. So he does what he’s been trained to do. Compartmentalizes. Shoves it in a box and closes it tight and shoves it to the side. It works, sort of. 

The firefight drags on. Five minutes doesn’t seem like a long time until you’re stuck in a tiny farmhouse in the Afghani countryside with two-dozen Taliban insurgents doing their best to bring the whole thing down down on your heads. Then five minutes is an eternity. They fight, because it isn’t in them not to, but with every passing second Brock gets the sense it’s a losing battle. 

“Got one mag then I’m winchester,”

Full Metal calls down the line. 

“Same here.”

Ray echoes a moment later. When Brock goes to reach for his vest to reload he comes up empty. Outside the tangoes start to creep closer towards their position, testing the waters. Like sharks that have smelled blood and are moving in for the kill. They’ve been up against the wall before, but right now it feels different. A moment later there’s a pained grunt, and Brock glances over to see Metal pull back from the window, one hand pressed to a bloom of red on his right sleeve. 

“I’m good,” He shouts gruffly before Trent can move towards him, “Just winged me.” 

Still, he doesn’t get back up. Brock feels something grim and heavy settle in his stomach.

“Hey, look, south at two o’clock!”

Kairos calls suddenly, a note of hope in his voice. Brock risks a peek next time he’s above the windowsill. At the opposite end of the valley there’s a small puff of dust, getting larger and larger, a glint of metal visible in the dirt. Sonny lets out a whistle, 

“Think the cavalry is here boys.” 

Brock narrows his eyes, squinting to get a better look, and sure enough from the clouds of dirt materialize a line of Humvees, barreling down the dusty beaten road to them. The insurgents seem to realize they’re suddenly outnumbered, the 50 cals mounted on their trucks swinging around to fire at the new threat. 

“Ooh fuckin’ rah motherfuckers!” 

Sonny yells, as one of the technicals takes a heavy spray from an M240G, side paneling buckling and crumpling from the force of the impacts. 

The tangoes put up a fight, but between a pissed off Bravo and an entire Marine platoon they don’t stand a chance. Once their numbers start to fall in earnest they suddenly decide that discretion is the better part of valor and start to head back the way they came. One of the vehicles comes to an abrupt stop when Ray double taps the driver in the head, and the other makes it halfway up the western slope of the valley before getting shredded by one of the humvee’s mounted machine guns. 

As suddenly as it started the fight is over. There’s a pause, a second of empty air as everybody realizes that somehow they’re all alive, and in one piece. Except for that’s not true. The smell of copper still heavy in the air is proof. Brock glances over his shoulder, eyes landing on where Clay is lying. He’s very still. Trent’s moving back to him as soon as the gunfire stops, dropping to his knees. Brock watches silently as he starts to check Clay’s pulse, his side, add more gauze. The bag of blood is nearly empty, now. For some reason that makes Brock’s stomach twist. 

“Alright, come on, stay sharp.” Jason barks, rousing them, reminding them. “This isn’t over yet.” 


	6. Chapter Six

“Blue, blue, blue.”

Comes a call from outside the house, and a second later the door swings open to reveal a marine with a badge on his arm that marks him as a second lieutenant. 

“Heard you boys needed a hand?” He asks, surveying the room with a raised eyebrow, “Second Lieutenant Ramirez, and that’s third platoon of First Battalion India Company outside.” 

“Yeah, thanks for the assist.” Jason says, a little breathlessly. “You got pretty good timing.” 

“Glad we could help. I know you got a man down, brought our medic in case you need extra hands.” 

He says, stepping aside so that another man can enter. Trent looks up from Clay’s side briefly, jerks his head towards Full Metal. 

“He got winged in the last fight, check him out.” 

The corpsman obeys, moving to kneel beside Full Metal, starting to poke a little nervously at his wounded arm. It’s not like Metal’s doing anything particularly intimidating, he just tends to have that effect on people. It’s almost funny, until Trent cuts in again. 

“Jase, he’s gonna crash soon we need to get him out of here, I can’t get this bleeding controlled.”

He calls, voice choppy and tense. Jason nods shortly. 

“Yeah okay got it. TOC, this Bravo one. How far out is that helo?”

The reply comes after a second. Fifteen minutes. Looking at Clay fifteen minutes seems like an unbearably long time for their ride to arrive. He doesn’t look like a man with fifteen minutes left to wait. Everybody seems to be thinking the same thing, and the mood drops in the room perceptibly. Eyeing them carefully Ramirez steps forward, raising his hands.

“Listen, not trying to intrude, but we can have him to the field hospital in Kabul in 20 mikes.” 

Jason gives him a look, standing in the middle of the room with silence settling heavily around him. Brock thinks, not for the first time, that it must be lonely to be Jason sometimes. To know that at the end of the day you’re the one who has to make the decision, and carry the weight of the consequences. He doesn’t envy him for it, not for a second. Not right now. Jason looks from Clay to the marine and back, fingers clenching and unclenching like he wants to hit something. He’s got that look in his eyes that says he’s weighing all the options, mind racing a million miles a minute and finding nothing. Sometimes you make every choice right and you still lose, Brock thinks, then wishes he hadn’t.

“Jason,” Ray says after a moment, “What’s the call.” 

“Trent. He going to be good in a truck?”

Jason asks with a grimace, looking to Trent. 

“It’s not ideal. But better then waiting fifteen mikes for the helo.” 

“Okay.” Jason says, turning back to Ramirez. “Let’s do it. Pack it up.”

The room bursts into a flurry of activity, everyone moving to get ready to go. Jason keys his comms, 

“TOC, we’re hitching a ride to Kabul. Let the field hospital know we’re coming.”

Brock doesn’t help move Clay this time, Sonny stepping in as soon as Trent asks for extra hands. They put him on a litter, Trent worried that carrying him will disturb any clotting that’s started. Clay doesn’t have blood left he can afford to lose. Brock get’s a glance as they move him onto the stretcher though, his eyes are closed but he looks a little better he thinks. A little more color in his face then before. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking. 

As soon as they have Clay secured they’re moving, out of the house and through the field to where the platoon’s vehicles are waiting. The ground is pitted with bullets, body’s laying where they fell in a morbid spectacle of death. As they make their way to the vehicles though Cerb starts to growl, deep and dangerous in the back of his throat, pulling at the leash attached to Brock’s waist. Brock’s brow furrows in confusion, as he looks around for a threat but sees nothing but an empty field full of corpses. 

“Hey, what do you see, buddy?”

He asks quietly. Cerb barks once then, short and sharp, eyes focused in front of them. Brock follow his gaze just in time to see what had appeared to be a dead tango reaching slowly into his vest. Brock doesn’t know what he’s reaching for, but whatever it is it can’t be good. There’s no time to call out, no time to warn anyone, so he doesn’t. Acting purely on instinct he reaches down and unclips Cerb, calling sharply,

“ _Fass_ ,” 

Cerberus runs like a bullet at the man as soon as the leash is off, getting his arm by the wrist and digging in, shaking it brutally. The man screams in pain, trying unsuccessfully to get the dog off him. Before he can manage much of anything though Jason puts him down with a headshot, and he collapses bonelessly backward. This time he stays down. 

“He was reaching for something.”

Brock explains when Jason gives him a questioning look, pulling Cerberus off of the body and clipping his leash back on. The fur around his muzzle is sticky red with blood. Jason comes over and kicks the man’s hand out of his jacket. It rolls out limply, fingers unfurling around the grenade clutched in his palm. If that had gone off it would have caught them all in the blast, marine platoon for back up or no they'd be dead. Jason's eyebrows climb a little, and he looks back to Brock. 

“Good catch.” 

He says appraisingly, knocking his shoulder against Brock’s as they start to move again, catching up with the rest of the group.

They load up into a Bearcat, Trent getting into the back first so they can hand Clay to him, situating him on the floor between the seats flat out on his back. The rest of them crowd in after, packing in around him on the benches. Brock slips in at the front, sliding up to sit by Clay’s head, pulling Cerb over his lap and settling the dog next too him. It’s too cramped to fit everyone in the truck, so Full Metal and Kairos hitch rides in a Humvee. As soon as Jason climbs in and pulls the doors shut behind him he’s shouting up to the driver. 

“We’re good, go.”

The vehicle jumps forward with a lurch as the marine driving hits the gas, and Brock reaches out a hand to steady himself against the wall. At their feet Trent is already working again, hands flying to Clay’s side. For his part Clay seems like he’s barely aware of what’s happening around him anymore. His eyes are glazed with pain, slowly opening and closing. It feels wrong, to see Clay so passive. Letting Trent manhandle him without protest. 

Sitting here now Brock gets a good look at Clay for the first time since he left his side back at the farmhouse. He looks awful, any color the blood transfusion had given him earlier is gone and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on every inch of visible skin. His eyelids barely open and when they do his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look black. The worst part is the way he’s breathing, shallow and labored. There’s a faint blue tint to his lips, like he’s been eating a popsicle that stained his mouth. Trent checks his pulse and a muscle in his jaw jumps when he pulls away.

“What’s wrong.”

Brock asks, knowing it’s a stupid question, asking it anyway.

“He’s been losing blood for almost half an hour, he’s starting to go into hypovolemic shock.” 

Trent explains tightly.

“Alright well, just-just give him another transfusion.”

Jason says, from where he’s sitting next to Clay’s feet. 

“I can’t,” Trent snaps, then winces, takes a deep breath and starts again. “I can’t. I used my last blood bag back in the farmhouse. The rest went to Hazrat. I’m going to push another dose of Hextend, fluids, try to get his BP out of the toilet.” 

As he’s talking his hands are moving, fishing another IV bag out of his kit and attaching it to the IO tube still in Clay’s chest. On Clay’s other side Sonny has one of Clay’s hands in his own. He’s leaning down, talking to Clay, and Brock catches a few words. 

“-you’re gonna be alright buddy, you’re gonna be just fine. Just hold on, just stay with me, sunshine. You can’t die, remember? I don’t want to go back to being the most irritating member of Bravo-”

Sonny continues on in an endless litany of you’re going to be fines, you’re going to be okays, his voice ragged. It’s so similar to the scene in Manila all those months ago, the scent of blood and fear heavy in the air, Clay laying on the floor bleeding out with his hand in Sonny’s grip. Dying because once again he did something brave and selfless and so goddamn stupid. It’s not fair, Brock thinks again, that they got him back and now they might lose him again. A bitter sort of irony there. 

_I could have stopped this_ , he realizes with a sudden aching clarity. He could have stopped this. He’d seen that Clay wasn’t alright, wasn’t in a good head space to be operating. And he’d kept it to himself, said nothing to anyone. And now Clay might die. 

“Brock!”

Trent calls, and Brock’s head jerks up, meeting Trent’s gaze. From the look in his eyes it’s not the first time he said his name. 

“Hold this up,”

He says, handing the IV bag to Brock with a hint of concern in his eyes. Brock takes it wordlessly, lifting it above his head. Beneath him Clay’s chest moves up and down unsteadily, head lolling a little with every bump in the road. There’s a smear of blood on his cheek, like red face paint at a child’s birthday party. It stands out garishly against the pallor of his skin and Brock finds he can’t look away from it. The inside of the Bearcat suddenly feels very small and stiflingly hot, the cloying smell of grease and gunmetal and copper turning his stomach. 

“You good?” 

Ray asks from beside him, bumping his elbow gently against Brock’s. Brock manages a small nod, and Ray follows his gaze downwards, a soft noise of realization escaping his throat. 

“Hey, Trent’s got him, he’s going to be okay.” 

Ray says, sounding just as much like he’s trying to convince himself as he is Brock. Brock finally tears his eyes away from Clay’s face, nodding again. He focuses on the feeling of Cerb’s warm body pressed against his thigh, on Ray sitting next to him, the hard metal ridges of the truck against his back. Takes a deep breath through his mouth and lets it out. 

“Yeah. You’re right.” 

He wishes he felt surer that was true. 

The driver hits a particularly deep pothole and the resulting jolt is enough to lift Brock out of his seat a little, banging his knee painfully into Ray’s. Clay’s limp body gets tossed to the side, and Trent lunges forward to steady him as he lets out a sharp abrupt cry at the movement. 

“Hey, watch where you’re driving.” 

Trent yells at the driver, sounding almost angry. Shaking his head he presses fresh gauze to Clay’s side, blooms of red appearing on the white like flowers. 

“Fuck, he isn’t clotting.” 

He curses under his breath, pushing down harder on the bloody mess of bandages.

“How far out are we?”

Jason asks shortly, sounding like he wants to hit something again. Sounding afraid in a way that scares Brock. 

“Five mikes.”

The driver calls back, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“Drive fuckin’ faster.”

Sonny snarls, voice stuck almost comically between anger and fear, grip white knuckled on Clay’s hand. Like he can hold him here, keep him alive with sheer force of will. There’s the soft sound of words being spoken, and Brock looks over to see Ray, eyes closed and lips moving. 

“Hail mary,” he says under his breath, “Full of grace. Pray for us, now and at the hour of our deaths.” 

He’s praying Brock realizes, numbly. Praying for Clay. Praying for Clay because he thinks he might die. That fact sinks heavy in his stomach like a rock, because Ray thinks Clay might die and Trent sounds angry and Jason looks scared and Sonny just won’t stop telling him to stay. 

Clay’s eyes are open now, Brock notices. Wide and terrified and impossibly blue. Like he knows exactly what’s happening to him. Like he knows he’s dying. He looks very young, lying bloody and pale on the floor of the truck, Brock thinks. He is young. Not even thirty years old. It seems unbelievably cruel that this might be it. That twenty-nine years is all he gets. Clay’s head shifts a little, and their gazes meet, and there’s a plea there. 

Almost unbidden Brock finds himself reaching down, catching Clay’s free hand in his. Clay’s skin is cool and clammy, fingers unresisting and limp in his grasp, but Brock holds on anyway. Squeezes hard. And after a second, Clay’s fingers curl weakly around his, squeezing faintly back. 

They stay like that for the rest of the way to the field hospital, Brock and Sonny on either side of Clay, holding his hands, anchoring him. Between them Trent works, white-lipped and silent. And Clay, Clay stays.


	7. Chapter Seven

“We’re here,”

The driver calls as the vehicle starts to slow. Jason’s scrambling for the doors even before it’s stopped moving completely, pushing them open and jumping down. 

“Come on, let’s get him out, let’s move.”

He barks as Ray follows him out of the Bearcat. Trent starts to slide out too, looking up to Brock and Sonny. 

“Okay, you’re gonna lift him up, hand him out to us alright?” 

Brock nods mutely, reaching down for the handles of Clay’s litter. Sonny counts them out and on three they lift, moving forward and sliding Clay out to Jason and Ray. There’s a trauma team running out from the front of the hospital with a gurney, and they meet them halfway, depositing Clay into their hands. Brock hops out of the truck, watches as Trent jogs towards back towards the building with them relaying information. 

“Hemorrhaging for about 30 minutes,” he calls, “Gave him one bag of blood on site via IO, as well as 100 mill’s Hextend. Exhibiting symptoms of hypovolemic shock.” 

One of the doctors nods, taking the IV bag from Trent. 

“Alright, thanks. We got it from here.” 

Then they disappear inside, doors swinging shut behind them with finality. For a second they all just stand there, no one moving, no one saying anything. What is there to say? Trent’s the first to snap out of it, shaking himself a little. 

“Hey, Metal. Let’s find someone to get your arm looked at.” 

He says, voice subdued. Full Metal starts to protest, but Jason just shakes his head tiredly. 

“C’mon, man. Just go. Don’t need-” His voice stumbles for a second and he swallows, “Don’t need to be two guys down.” 

Metal nods, deflating, and lets Trent lead him away. As soon as they’re gone silence descends around them again, the sort of silence that comes from an absence of anything else. For the first time since they started this op there’s nothing, no enemy to fight, no impending doom to face, no hand to hold. The weight of the emptiness, the lack of it, settles heavily on Brock’s shoulders. Beside him Cerb yips anxiously, licking at his fingers. He lets him, trying to focus on the rough scrape of Cerberus’s tongue on his skin. 

In the background he hears Jason talking to the lieutenant, thanking him probably. He should be thankful, Ramirez might have saved Clay’s life, but he isn’t anything at all. Instead Brock feels numb. Feels a void. The emotion will come, eventually, he knows. Like waves against a beach, when it leaves it always has to return eventually. And like the tide, it takes something when it goes. 

After a few minutes the marines leave, pulling out in a cloud of dust just as Trent comes back without Metal. 

“He gonna be alright?”

Ray has the presence of mind to ask. Trent sighs, rubbing wearily at his forehead. 

“Yeah, uh, just a graze. He’s getting it stitched up.”

Jason nods, eyes distant. 

“Good. That’s good.” 

“Listen, I found us a room, we can wait there for…”

Trent trails off. Wait for what he doesn’t say. Wait for news. Wait for Clay to live, or for him to die. Quietly they follow him into the building, past rows of bed’s and busy looking doctors. The room he takes them too looks like some sort of break room for the hospital staff, a few foldout chairs scattered around a rickety looking table with a mini-fridge humming softly in the background. There’s an ugly overstuffed couch along the far wall, and Brock gravitates towards it. As soon as he sinks into it Cerb hops up next to him and curls in a ball against his leg. 

Everyone sits and stews. To exhausted and wrung out to talk. Jason paces, Ray prays, Sonny fumes, Trent rubs absentmindedly at a speck of red stain on his pants. Brock just stares at the beige wall across from him and does nothing at all. 

“Look, I’m going to go try and find some coffee. We could all use it, might be a long wait.”

Kairos says after a few minutes, voice steady and calm, an anchor when the ground seems to have shifted beneath their feet. Nobody responds though and after a few seconds he leaves quietly, pulling the door carefully shut behind him. The room falls back into silence. They wait. 

Eventually Jason shakes his head. 

“This is taking too long. I’m going to find someone, see if I can get some info. Trent?”

Trent pushes himself up from where he’d been sitting by the table, nods. 

“Yeah, alright. I’m in.” 

It’s probably a good idea for Trent to go with, just in case Jason tries to bite the head off of some poor unsuspecting corpsman. The two of them disappear out of the room together. 

Cerb shifts at his side at the sound of the door and Brock looks down, notices that Cerb’s muzzle and face are still covered in now tacky drying blood. He zeroes in on it, it’s something he can do. Something he can fix. 

“I’m going to find a bathroom, clean Cerb up.” 

He says to no one in particular. Ray gives him an absentminded nod, thoughts obviously elsewhere. Pushing himself up he tells Cerberus to stay, then wanders out of the break room, walking aimlessly up and down bland corridors till he finds a restroom. It’s thankfully empty, and he moves to the tower dispenser, yanking one out. Every paper that he takes has smears of red on it though, and he realizes with a start that his gloves are what’s leaving it behind. The gloves he’d pressed to Clay’s side, held Clay’s hand with. 

Swallowing convulsively he strips them off, throwing them in the trash. Somehow blood’s made it inside the fabric, looping around his wrists, staining his knuckles, under his fingernails. He bites down hard on his lip and turns the handle on the sink as hot as it’ll go, sticking his hands under the steaming water and scrubbing till they’re pink and raw and clean. Shutting off the water with a little more force then is entirely necessary he grabs a handful of paper towels and heads back to the others.

Kairos has returned by the time Brock gets back, and he’s managed to find coffee somewhere, carefully setting a few little paper cups on the table as Brock walks in. 

“Want some?”

He offers, but Brock just shakes his head, making a beeline for Cerb. Kneeling in front of where he’s still curled up on the couch he starts to wipe at the blood clinging to the fur around his mouth and nose. Cerberus takes his administrations with good grace, letting Brock swab at his face till he’s got most of the red out. His eyes are dark and quiet and calm, and Brock takes a shuddering breath when he’s finished, reaching forward to press his forehead against Cerb’s. He smells of dog and dirt and desert sun, and faintly beneath that of blood and smoke. 

Brock doesn’t realize his hands are shaking till he goes to throw away the dirty paper towels. He looks down at them, almost surprised by the fine tremors, feeling faintly betrayed. It’s not like he’s never got a little blood on his hands before, not like he’s never watched a friend nearly die. _But you never had the chance to stop it before it even happened before_ , a voice in his mind whispers He must stare at them a second longer then normal, because Ray clocks it. 

“You good, Brock?

He asks from across the room, cautiously. Brock folds his arms across his chest, balling his hands into fists and sticking them in his armpits. 

“Yeah. Fine.”

He says shortly. He wishes Ray would stop asking him that. It’s not like he’s the one who just did his best to bleed out most of his blood volume in the bottom of a truck. He’s going to sit down on the couch again when the door swings open and Jason steps back in, Trent trailing behind him. Neither of them look they have good news. 

“Hey, you hear anything? He gonna be alright?” 

Sonny asks as he gets up from his chair, voice painfully hopeful. Jason shakes his head, turning away and leaning against the wall. Trent steps forward instead, running a hand down his face.

“They’re, uh, they’re having a hard time getting him stabilized enough for surgery.” He says, quietly. “He’s been medevaced back to the FOB for now, they’ve got better equipment to deal with it there.”

“What does that-what does that mean, having a hard time stabilizing him. He’s in a hospital ain’t he?” 

Sonny says, a little sharply, anger warring with fear now that the hope is gone. 

“He lost a lot of blood. They cut him open right now there’s a good chance he wouldn’t make it through surgery.” 

Trent explains, sounding very tired. Sonny’s face pales a little and he sits down again, like his legs have been cut out from under him. Brock’s fingers tighten, nails biting into the skin of his palms. Jason pushes off the wall, scrubbing at his face and turning back to them. 

“Talked to Blackburn. They’re sending a helo to pick us up. It’ll be here in five so get your shit together.”

Everyone nods, starting to shift and get slowly to their feet. 

“I’m going to hunt down Metal, think he’d be pretty pissed if we forgot him. I’ll meet you guys at the pad.” 

Trent says, before disappearing out the door again. Brock unfolds his arms, opening his fists. His hands aren’t shaking anymore, and there’s a line of red crescents across his palms. 

The helo ride back to Fenty is somber. As they lift off Brock watches the ground grow smaller and more indistinct under his feet, tries to settle into the peace he usually finds up here, but it doesn’t come. Every time he closes his eyes all he can see is Clay’s eyes, blue and terrified, and the smear of red on his cheek. He’s scared. Really scared. Clay is Brock’s teammate, his brother, but more then that he’s his friend. He’s his friend, and he doesn’t want to bury him. God, he doesn’t want to bury him. 

When they touch down on the tarmac Blackburn is waiting for them, looking grave. He doesn’t start talking till they’ve all gathered near him, the rotors of the chopper spinning slowly to a halt. 

“They managed get him stabilized, he’s in surgery.” He says, solemnly, “That’s all the information I have right now. But I promise as soon as I know anything more I’ll pass it on.”

“Okay.”

Jason nods, sniffs. Starts to walk towards the bus. He get’s halfway there before turning back, jaw set. 

“Listen, Blackburn, we don’t leave till he leaves, got it?”

They’re all thinking the same thing, Brock knows, thinking of Manila. Where Clay got airlifted 9,000 miles away and they didn’t talk to him for a month, didn’t see him for more then that. Left him to deal with everything alone. None of them want that again. Blackburn just nods, face hard but eyes soft. 

“I’ll make it happen.” 

He says. And Brock thinks numbly that they’re very lucky he’s their CO. As they load onto the bus Kairos pauses, turning back. 

“Hey, I uh, I still got that computer we grabbed out of the HVT’s house. Might be some useful stuff on there at least.”

He says, pulling the laptop out of his pack and holding it out. Blackburn takes it. 

“I’ll get this to Lisa, she should be able to pull something off of it.” 

He says, but there’s no triumph in his voice. It feels like a paltry victory. The HVT is dead, Clay is fighting for his life in a hospital. It feels like they lost. Kairos nods, stepping onto the bus. When Sonny gets on his eyes glance over the green bobblehead sitting on the dash and something that looks very close to grief flashes across his face before he turns away to sit. Brock thinks back to his joke this morning, suddenly it doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

They dejock. It’s a far cry from the start of the day, everyone messing around and laughing and shoving. Trent strips off his bloody shirt, dropping it in a heap in the bottom of his box and turning away, jaw tight. There’s a tentative knock at the open door, and Brock looks over to see Lisa standing just outside. Her face is white, lips a fine line. 

“Hey,” she starts, a little shakily. “ Can I- can I come in for a sec?”

Jason nods quietly and she steps inside, looking slowly around at them. Her eyes linger on Trent, on the rusty smears on his hands, his arms. The way it’s soaked into the knees of his pants. She swallows, keeps her gaze straight ahead, shoulders squared like she’s facing a firing squad. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She says. Ray opens his mouth to cut her off but she just shakes her head, continues on, choking the words out. 

“No-this was… I’m your intelligence officer. It’s my job to provide accurate intel to help you accomplish your mission goals and stay safe. I- I didn’t do that, and now Clay-”

Her voice breaks then, and she looks down, one hand reaching up and quickly swiping at her cheek. Jason steps forward, face softening a little.

“Listen, Davis. You did your job. The intel was good. Spenser…Spenser made his own choices, and that’s not on you.” 

She gives a tiny nod, and when she looks up her eyes are glassy with tears. 

“But Clay-he-”

Her voice breaks off again, catching in her throat in a sob and then Jason’s moving, wrapping her in a hug. 

“I know,” he says, humming low in his throat like he’s soothing one of his kids. “I know. Not your fault, Davis. It’s not your fault.” 

Brock agrees with that much, it wasn’t _Lisa’s_ fault. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t anybody’s. 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! Got one last chapter and then an epilogue. Thank you every one for your comments, as always love reading them :)

After a few seconds Lisa pulls herself away, wiping at her eyes again and excusing herself with a soft thank you. Everyone’s quiet for a long minute, before Sonny slams his gearbox closed with bang.

“I need a drink.” 

He says sharply, voice cutting through the heavy silence. Then he walks out the door. Jason sighs, rubs hard at his face. 

“Listen… we’ll talk later.” Jason says in a tone that means he’s looking for answers and he’s going to get them, “But for right now, just try and get some rest. Do what you gotta do. Blackburn will let us know if anything changes.” 

Everyone nods slowly, no one making a move to do anything. Trent’s the first to leave, holding up his rust-stained hands. 

“I’m going to go get cleaned up…”

He says, sounding exhausted. Ray reaches out to pat him on the back as he walks out and Trent manages a small anemic smile. They slowly start to file out after that, each drifting apart to find comfort their own ways. 

Brock follows Jason’s instructions, and heads back to the hooch, tries to get some rest. There’s no one else in the small plywood building when he opens the door, which he’s grateful for. He doesn’t think he can really be around his teammates right now. He climbs slowly into his bunk, whistling for Cerb to come. Cerberus doesn’t follow him up right away though, instead sitting down at the bottom of Clay’s bunk and looking up at it like he’s expecting see his friend there. Brock’s throat tightens uncomfortably, and he swallows hard. 

“Cerb,” He calls, softly. “Come on. He’s-he’s not there, buddy.” 

Cerb sits for a second longer, before letting out an almost mournful huff and slinking over to climb up to Brock, settling down next to him. Brock takes a deep breath and lets his eyelids drift shut, wanting nothing more then to just be unconscious for a little while, to not think about anything at all. 

As he lays in his cramped bed with Cerb warm at his side though he finds that sleep, which usually comes so easily to him, is elusive. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Clay’s pale bloody face, and every time he opens them he sees Clay’s empty bunk across from his, still unslept in. No matter where he looks he can’t escape it, Clay’s absence. It feels suffocating. He’s almost grateful an hour later when Trent pokes his head in the door, looking around for him. 

“Hey, Brock, you awake? Blackburn’s got an update.” 

Brock sits up a little, heart jumping into his throat. 

“Yeah, I’m up.” 

Trent waits for him to get out of the bunk, get himself together a little bit, before they walk out to the rest of the team together. Cerb stays behind, still curled up in Brock’s bed. Brock lets him. Figures he probably deserves a bit of a break. 

The rest of Bravo are all already gathered in the open space in the middle of the base, where they’ve sat and gotten drunk on shitty toilet bowl moonshine or traded jibes around the campfire a hundred times before. Blackburn looks up as they approach, arms folded across his chest. Brock tries to read his face for any sign of what’s coming but it’s studiously blank. 

“So, what’s the news?”

Jason asks impatiently, as soon as they get close, hands playing anxiously with a rubber band. 

“He’s out of surgery.” Blackburn says carefully, “He’s stable, but not out of the woods yet. Guy sliced him up pretty bad.”

“Internal damage?”

Trent asks. Blackburn nods. 

“Yeah, lacerated liver. Doc’s say he was lucky though, knife glanced off the ribs, missed the lungs. We’d probably be talking a different story here if it hadn’t.” 

Brock doesn’t feel like Clay’s particularly lucky, but he’s still alive, and that alone is enough to unclench the knot that’s been sitting in his chest. Just a little.

“Can we see him?” 

Sonny cuts in eagerly, but Blackburn shakes his head. 

“Not right now. They’ve still got him listed as critical, but I’ll let you know as soon as that changes.”

“Thanks, Blackburn.”

Jason says quietly, snapping the rubber band around his wrist. Blackburn just nods.

“Listen, I’m going to go find Davis, get her updated. She’s taking it pretty hard.” 

Brock thinks back to Lisa’s white-faced apology in the gear room and winces. With a last promise to let them know the minute Clay’s condition changes either way Blackburn heads out, leaving Bravo on their own. Jason folds his arms, looking around the small ragged circle. Takes a breath. 

“Alright. Let’s talk. Ray, what the hell happened out there?”

Ray sighs, leaning forward in his seat and running a hand through his hair. 

“When the DShK started firing Brock, Clay, and I were pinned down behind the truck. Clay wanted to make a run for the gunner’s position, try and take him out, but I said we should wait.” 

“And Clay went for it anyways.” 

Jason supplies grimly, sounding like he’s not sure whether he should be pissed off or proud. Ray just nods. Brock doesn’t add anything, what is there to say? He had a chance to stop Clay and he didn’t and Clay almost died because of it. Might still die because of it. He knows he’ll have to say something eventually, but not now. Not yet. He’s not sure he’s ready to face the judgment in his brother’s eyes. Jason curses, starting to pace and then abruptly stopping, sinking into the ratty couch next to Ray. 

“Goddamn reckless idiot.” 

He mutters, but it sounds more fond then an angry. What Clay did _was_ reckless and stupid and disobeying direct orders, and it also saved all their lives. That’s the part that Brock can’t cope with, in the end. That he did it for them, with that terrible relief in his eyes, like he was just waiting for a chance to throw himself in the path of the bullets. Like he was waiting for a chance to have something to die for. 

“Shouldn’t have said all that shit about the creature.” Sonny starts abruptly, voice cracking and bending. “It was….I shouldn’t have said it.”

Ray shakes his head, reaching out to put a hand on Sonny’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” He admonishes gently, “Don’t start with that, alright? It was just a joke. Clay knew that.” 

Sonny nods, sniffs a little and runs a hand under his nose. 

“Gonna kick his ass when he get’s better.”

He says finally, a little shakily. 

“Yeah, well you’re going to have to get in line for that.”

Trent adds, and it’s almost a joke except for it isn’t. 

A couple of the guys stay out there, comfort in numbers maybe, but Brock excuses himself after a few minutes and heads back to the bunks. It’s too much, being around them right now, around the fear that still lingers in their eyes. When he opens the door Cerb isn’t where he left him, and for a second there’s a flash of panic in Brock’s stomach. He scans the small room though, and quickly finds his dog curled in Clay’s bed, head resting on the backpack Clay had thrown there haphazardly this morning on their way to the briefing. Brock’s breath catches in his throat painfully, and his eyes burn. Something that he’d been holding onto since Clay stumbled out of that forest, some last threads of control finally break and he has to lean forward and brace himself on the bed for a second. _You should have told someone_ , he thinks, with a brutal certainty that if he had they wouldn’t be here right now. 

He goes for a run. Calls Cerb down from the bed and clips on his leash. He does lap after lap after lap of the compound along the chain link fence till his heart pounds in his chest and his breath comes sharp and painful like glass. _You should have told someone_. With every thump of his feet against the hard packed ground and every beat of his heart in his chest it echoes in his head, you should have, you should have, you should have. The waves return, and suddenly Brock is drowning in them. 

It’s dusk by the time he stops, bending over and grabbing the chain link with one hand as he pants, breath harsh and ragged, feeling totally spent. Cerberus dances anxiously at his side, like he can sense something is off whining low in the back of his throat. The noise breaks through the strange haze he’s in, like a baby crying for it’s mother, because Cerb is his responsibility and he’s scaring him. Brock lowers himself to his knees, lets Cerb slot his head into the space between his shoulder and his neck, runs his hand down his back.

“Sorry boy,” He whispers, “It’s gonna be okay. Clay’ll be back.”

They stay like that for a long time, the two of them, Cerberus’s breath warm and damp against his ear. When Brock finally gets to his feet again he’s not sure if he feels better, mostly he feels emptier. Like something scooped him out inside. It’s not quite catharsis, but his chest doesn’t ache as badly anymore.

Slowly he makes his way back to the hooch, feeds Cerb and gives him some water. He’s just wiping his sweaty face off with a towel when Trent opens the door and steps inside. 

“Hey,” he says, “Guys are out by the fire pit, Davis got booze. You should come.” 

There’s a flicker of something that’s almost anger in Brock’s stomach, because why should they be hanging out and getting drunk when Clay’s laying in a hospital bed, but it dies almost before he can realize where it’s coming from. It’s their way of coping, he knows. Their way of holding on to what’s normal when the world shifts underneath their feet. Still, he shakes his head. 

“I’m good, think I’m just going to try to get some sleep.” 

He says, but Trent doesn’t let him off the hook. 

“Come on, you’ve been hiding in here since we got back, one drink man.”

He urges. Brock sighs, but nods. If he fights it too hard it’ll just be suspicious. He’ll go for a minute and slip away when everybody’s too drunk to notice. Shrugging on his favorite plaid jacket and changing out of his running shoes he calls for Cerb and follows Trent out of the building. 

It’s fully dark now, and the fire somebody started glows comfortingly against the night sky. Everyone from Bravo is gathered around the makeshift fire pit, and he recognizes some Delta guys as well, a few still looking a little banged up. Brock lets Lisa hand him a cup of something that smells awfully similar to drain cleaner and picks his way around the edge of the circle, settling in a camping chair at the edge of the group. Cerb sits down between his feet, resting his head on his paws. He takes a sip of whatever Lisa gave him and winces as it burns down the back of his throat. 

Nobody’s really talking, the atmosphere heavy and somber. Sonny’s already red-faced with alcohol, and doesn’t look like he’s slowing down anytime soon. That’s the Sonny Quinn SOP, drink until it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s never been Brock’s method, he finds that no matter how much you drink the pain is still there when you wake up. 

Clay’s favorite lumpy recliner that somebody managed to scrounge up and drag onto base ages ago is conspicuously empty. Brock pointedly doesn’t look at it, instead downs the rest of the moonshine, setting the empty cup on the ground.

Across the fire pit he notices Jason watching him with careful eyes, and shifts a little uncomfortably under his gaze. That’s probably his cue to leave. He’s about to make his excuses and head out when Jason beats him to the punch, leaning over to say some quietly to Ray he doesn’t catch before standing. Brock watches him make his way over to where he’s sitting, with the distinct feeling he’s been set up somehow. 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and stay tuned for the epilogue! And for everyone who requested option #2 on my last story, something might be coming your way soon ;) In the meantime stay safe and healthy y'all!

“Hey. Where’d you go?” Jason asks, dropping down next to Brock and handing him a beer. “You’ve barely said two words since we got to Kabul.”

Brock takes the beer, shrugs. Focuses on the flickering red and yellow flames of the fire in front of him. 

“Not much to say.” 

He replies cautiously, not looking at Jason. 

“Aw come on, you’re quiet, but not that quiet man. Something’s up.”

Brock finally tears his eyes away from the firepit, glances over a little suspiciously at Jason and then to where Trent and Ray are chatting across the pit from them. 

“Ray send you over here to check up on me?”

Jason follows his gaze, nods slowly.

“Yeah. Trent’s worried too. And so am I. So you might as well spill it, or they’re gonna come over here and bother you till you do. Your choice.”

Brock takes a deep breath, feels his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle in his hand. When he blinks he still sees the imprint of the fire against the back of his eyelids. He really doesn’t want to talk about it, but he also doesn’t want to talk about it to Trent and Ray and have it turn into a whole spectacle. 

“A couple days before we got spun up I took Clay out for a run. We talked.” He starts, trying to find the right words. “He was…He’s not okay, Jase. I know we all want him to be but he’s not okay. Said he couldn’t sleep, he was having nightmares about Manila, about Swanny. Said he felt like he was letting down the people in his life he cared about. Then we come here, he pulls this crazy move and-” 

Brock pauses, faltering. Has to force himself to say the next part. 

“-I should have told someone, should have known he wasn’t good to be operating. I could have stopped this.” 

Jason sits back in his chair when Brock’s finished. If he’s surprised by the veritable monologue Brock just vomited out he doesn’t show it. After a long moment he sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his right eye like he’s trying to press away a headache. When he speaks is voice is caught between regret and resignation. 

“Yeah, you’re right. He’s not okay. I’ve been ignoring the signs, I think we all have, and it was a mistake. We paid for it. But Brock, that’s not on you. It’s on all of us. We’re his team. We should have noticed, shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

Brock shakes his head, because Jason doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize. Brock knew, he saw the look in Clay’s eyes just before he ran. He should have grabbed him and sat on him if that’s what it took to keep him from making a break for it. They would’ve have figured out another way, they always do. 

“You don’t get it.” Brock says, and his voice is tight. “He told me-he said he’d rather die then lose any of us. And the way he said it, it scared the shit out of me, Jase. I knew. And I didn’t say anything. Tell me how that’s not on me.” 

And it’s almost a plea, tell me it’s not on me. Tell me I don’t have to carry this weight. 

“Come on, Brock, look at me. ” 

Jason orders, gentle but firm. Brock reluctantly obeys, shifting his head towards his team leader. Jason looks very sad, and very tired, dark eyes flickering in the firelight. Most of the time Jason hides it well but it’s moments like these that the nearly two decades of service he carries show, the nearly two decades of loss. 

“You really think you could keep Clay from doing something he’s got his mind send on doing?” He asks, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, easing away the lines for second. “Kid’s stubborner then a mule, you know that.”   
  
Brock can’t help but laugh a little at that, shaking his head. It’s true, Clay would give a tequila-drunk Sonny a run for his money on a good day. Jason’s smile fades and settles into something more serious. 

“Look, when- _when_ Clay gets out of the hospital we’ll sit him down, help him get his head on straight, alright? We’ll do it together, like a team. Until then, don’t beat yourself up for something that’s not your fault. It’s like I told Davis, Spenser makes his own decisions.” 

He reaches out at the end, squeezes Brock’s shoulder. Brock nods slowly, accepting the gesture. There’s a sense of relief, in having it off his shoulders, in not holding it inside like something deadly and secret. Even as Jason gets up, walks back over to the couch, Brock thinks about his words. _We’ll do it together, like a team._ Thinks about the way Clay had looked at them on that plane, like he was afraid of them, afraid for them. Thinks about how the lone wolf dies without it’s pack. 

Maybe that’s Clay’s problem, he was so scared to lose them that he was willing to lose himself. Maybe that might his problem too. They’re a team, they do things together, they don’t hide from each other. It never leads anywhere good. From across the fire pit Ray catches his eye and offers him a small smile. Brock hesitates a moment, then smiles back. 

Still, he doesn’t sleep well that night, and when he dreams it’s of the smell of smoke and copper and blank blue eyes. 

They’re eating breakfast at the mess the next morning when Blackburn finds them. Sonny’s been bitching about how the bacon isn’t crispy enough for the past ten minutes, but there’s no real passion in it. 

“Got some good news for you guys,” Blackburn says, sounding less grim then he has since they got back. “Clay’s condition is improving. Doctor’s said he could have visitors, probably be stable enough to fly by tomorrow.”

Sonny’s up like a shot before Blackburn’s even done speaking, limp bacon forgotten. 

“Jase,” 

He says, plea evident in his voice. Jason nods, shoves his tray forward. 

“Yeah, yeah, come on guys, let’s check up on our boy.” 

Ray drives them the few minutes over to the medical center. Brock had to leave Cerb behind at the base, there’s no sneaking a dog in here, and he misses the comforting presence at his side. His hands flex with the urge to do something, for the feeling of Cerb’s fur running through his fingers. He settles for tugging at the frayed hem of the cut-off shorts he’s wearing, worrying the strands till they unravel. 

When they get to the hospital a harried looking corpsman shows them to Clay. As she leads them down the rows of hospital beds Brock feels his stomach churn uncomfortably. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, he should be happy but there’s something anxious and hard in his chest. Clay’s at the end of the ward, and Brock spots his mop of blonde hair splayed out against the pillow from a few beds away. He looks better then the last time Brock saw him, still pale but not deathly so. There’s a mass of wires attached to his chest and an oxygen cannula in his nose but other then that he looks okay. When they get a little closer though Brock can pick out the shadow of the bulky dressings under his gown.

“Just a warning,” The corpsman says as they start to slow, giving them a cautioning look. “He’s going to be out of it, he’s on some pretty heavy duty painkillers.”

“We’ve seen him high on that china white before,” Sonny jokes, “Hope he doesn’t try and propose to any of us this time.”

The joke falls a little flat, no one laughing really. They all know this is different from a scraped up leg. It’s funny, this isn’t the first time Clay’s almost died, but last time they didn’t see him till he was fixed up. This feels like a different beast, one none of them know how to handle. They gather around his bed, Clay’s eye’s blinking open blearily to take in their faces one by one. He manages a tiny smile. 

“Hey there goldilocks,” 

Sonny says, voice unusually fragile. 

“Hey,” 

Clay says back, voice a little dry and cracked. Then,

“Why do you all look like crap?”

Sonny barks out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Don’t think you should be calling any names there Bam Bam, you ain’t looking to hot there yourself.”

Clay’s doesn’t reply though, already drifting off again, obviously exhausted. Ray leans against the bottom of his bed, smiling tiredly but genuinely. 

“Well, looks like his attitude didn’t take a beating, huh.” 

Clay’s cleared to make the flight home the next day, and everyone’s relieved to get out of the country. They sedate him prettily heavy for the trip, a couple of medics getting him set up in a gurney in the corner of the C-17 for the ride. Trent immediately rechecks all of their work the minute they step away, even though he doesn’t need to. No one says anything about it, and Clay sleeps peacefully the whole trip through. As soon as they touch ground in Virgina Beach he’s loaded into an ambulance and moved to the local military hospital. 

The team takes an hour to shower and clean up a little, washing the dirt and dust of Afghanistan from under their fingernails. Full Metal is corralled to the base infirmary to get his arm checked on again, and Kairos heads home once he extracts a promise to be updated on Clay’s condition once they know more. The rest of the team is all tired and worn out and could probably use a solid twelve hours of sleep but there’s also a tacit agreement that Clay shouldn’t have to wake up alone. So, they all head over to the hospital and settle in, waiting for him to come out of the sedation.

Somehow Brock’s the only one in the room when Clay wakes up. Ray went home for a little while to see Naima and the kids, Sonny and Jason are grabbing coffee and food in the hospital cafeteria, and Trent’s off tracking down Clay’s doctor to argue about something. So it’s just him when Clay’s eyes slowly open, blinking slowly as he takes in the hospital room. 

“Hey, hey there, you back with us Clay?”

Brock asks, sitting forward nervously.

“Yeah.” Clay says, voice a little rough, tries again. “Yeah, think so.” 

Clearing his throat he starts to try and sit up a little and immediately falls back down, face creasing in pain. Brock shoots out of his chair, hands hovering uselessly in the air. 

“Woah, woah, slow down, need me to call a nurse?”

Clay just shakes his head slowly, lips tight across his face. 

“No,” he says after a long second, “I’m good. Just need to sit up.” 

“Okay, fine, but let me give you a hand alright?”

Clay grimaces but lets him help him up. Brock gets him settled in a more upright position, carefully watching his face the whole time for any signs that something is wrong, ready to hit the call button if need be Clay’s protestations be damned. 

“So,” he asks awkwardly once Clay’s had a second to catch his breath, “How you feeling?”

Clay quirks a grin, lips tugging upwards. 

“Pretty much like I got stabbed a bunch.”

He replies a little wryly, and Brock winces. 

“Yeah. Kind of a stupid question I guess.” 

He says quietly, looking away. He feels the familiar waves of guilt rise, tries to press them down.

“Hey, are you… are you pissed at me?”

Clay asks, a little tentatively, after a too long second of silence. The question takes Brock by surprise, and it seems so absurd he almost laughs. 

“What? No, why would you think I was pissed?”

He asks, confused. Clay shrugs carefully. 

“I dunno, you just seem kinda mad I guess.” 

Brock shakes his head. 

“No. I’m not mad. Just…worried, man.” And then, more cautiously, he says, “That was a pretty risky move you pulled. ” 

Clay stiffens a little, looking away as his face shuts down, fingers curling at his sides. 

“Well, you don’t have to be worried. It paid off didn’t it? We’re all alive, I’m okay.” 

He says woodenly. _I’m okay_. It’s such a bald faced lie Brock doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s pretty damn obvious that he’s not, the fact that they’re having this conversation in a hospital room kinda underscoring the point. 

“Clay, you know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” 

He says, softly. For a second Clay’s eyes flash, frown curving his lips and brow furrowing in now familiar tells that he’s gearing up to be mad, but then something changes and instead he just slumps a little. Like he doesn’t have it in him to fight anymore. 

“Yeah, well, what else can I do?”

He asks, almost bitterly. Brock aches for him a little, then. For all them. The way they never get to really heal. The shit they all carry with them. Right here, right now, in this hospital room, he’d give anything to take a little of it off of Clay. 

“You can talk to us.” He says, aware it sounds woefully inadequate. “To me or Jason or Sonny or Ray or Trent. We all help each other, when it gets to be too much. It doesn’t go away, but it makes it a little easier.”

Clays looks over at Brock, and there’s something that might be hopeful in his eyes. Something open. Brock jumps on it. 

“Look, I know that it sounds like bullshit but…I think it’s better then trying to face it on your own, and I learned that the hard way. You don’t have to let it kill you, Clay.”

Brock says the last part a little uncomfortably, thinking back to the remedial course he got on that particular lesson yesterday. Clay gives him an appraising look, but doesn’t press further. Brock’s glad, there’s some things Clay doesn’t need to know. After a long second Clay nods, looking down at his hands and taking a deep shaky breath. 

“It wasn’t about being a hero or anything, going down in a blaze of glory. I just-I guess, back there in the field, I felt like maybe I had the chance to make up for Adam and Swanny, you know? Like I had a chance to do a good thing, to save you guys.” 

“Yeah, well, you ever consider we wouldn’t want to be saved like that?”

Brock retorts. Clay’s head jerks up, eyes wide and startled, like he hadn’t even considered the simple fact that maybe the rest of his team would have a problem with him sacrificing himself in their name. 

“We know you’d do pretty much anything for us,” Brock continues, “You don’t think that goes both ways?”

Clay opens his mouth, closes it again soundlessly. Brock waits. 

“I guess… I never thought about it quite like that…”

Clay says uncertainly. Brock just raises an eyebrow, waits some more. Clay sighs. 

“Okay, I’m not going to say I regret what I did, because I don’t, but I’ll try to keep the self-sacrificial acts to a minimum in the future, okay>” 

He finally concedes, sounding almost sheepish. 

“Okay.”

Brock replies quietly, and finally feels a weight lift off his chest. It’s not a promise, but it’s a step in the right direction and that’s as much as he can ask. One step at a time gets you to the finish line eventually. Clay looks visibly relieved, heaving out a huff of air and running a hand through his hair uncomfortably. 

“Okay. Good. Christ, does this mean no more touchy feely shit? If Sonny was here I’m pretty sure he’d break out in hives man.” 

Brock snorts.

“Yeah, well don’t get to excited. Soon as you’re feeling a little better Jason’s got a long lecture ready for you, and Trent’s waiting next in line. Think Ray might even want to get it on the action too. And none of them are as nice as I am.”   
He says, resisting the urge to laugh as Clay winces again, in a different kind of pain this time, relief vanishing from his face. 

“Any chance I can convince you to sneak me out of the hospital?”

He asks a little plaintively. Brock grins, shakes his head. 

“Not a chance in hell, but if you’re on your best behavior maybe I’ll try and sneak Cerb in next time I visit.” 

Clay grins, face lighting up at the thought. 

“Alright, deal.”

He says, sticking out his hand. Brock reaches forward and takes it, feels Clay’s fingers squeeze strong and firm against his. 

“Deal.”


	10. Epilogue

After a week Clay’s released from the hospital on the condition he stays with someone for the first few days out. Trent offers immediately and Clay grudgingly acquiesces to the babysitting, mostly because Jason threatens to have Naima read him the riot act if he doesn’t listen. A week after that and Trent clears him to stay in his apartment alone, as long he submits to regular check-in’s from the rest of the team and doesn’t push himself to hard. For the first couple of days Clay seems to keep his word, letting the rest of Bravo drop by and taking his meds dutifully. That of course doesn’t last long. 

Brock’s just considering going for a run while the good weather holds when his phone buzzes. He fishes it out of his pocket to find a text from Clay. 

_Need some fresh air. Walk?_

Brock frowns, Clay’s been back on his own for a couple days now and seems to be doing much better but he’s still recovering and Trent had warned against any strenuous physical activity. As if guessing Brock’s thought process Clay sends another text, message popping up below the first. 

_Come on, promise I’ll behave._

Brock sighs, but gets the feeling Clay’ll just keep texting him till he caves. He sends back a wary yes, and grabs his keys from the counter. Looks like his plans for a run will have to be postponed. 

Brock pulls into Clay’s parking lot and puts the car in park, reaching for his phone. He’s about to shoot Clay a text to let him know he’s here when he looks up to find Clay already waiting for him, which means he probably walked all the stairs down from his apartment on his own which he’s really not supposed to do. Brock gets out of the car, jogging around to the passenger’s side to open the door for him, shooting him a reprimanding glance. Clay rolls his eyes, but lets Brock help him in. 

“You know,” Brock says conversationally as he gets back in the drivers seat and pulls the door shut, “If Trent finds out about this he’s going to skin us both.” 

Clay just grins at him. 

“Well then, we’ll just have to make sure Trent doesn’t find out.” 

Brock resists the urge to just pull a u-turn and drag Clay back into his apartment and into bed. Instead takes a deep breath and asks, 

“So, have anywhere in particular in mind?”

Clay nods, 

“Yeah, actually. I was thinking, uh, maybe that park you took me right before we got spun up?”

Brock raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just flicks his blinker and turns onto the highway on ramp. 

It’s a weekday, and they have the lot to themselves when they pull in. Clay pushes the car door open, hopping gingerly out before Brock can help him, stretching a little as he takes a deep breath. Shaking his head Brock joins him.

“So, I was thinking we could do the loop, it’s short and pretty level the whole way.” 

Clay just shakes his head. 

“Nah, I want to go to the viewpoint you showed me before.”

Brock resists the urge to gape. 

“No. No way. That trail is steep as hell, do I need to remind you you got stabbed three times less then a month ago?”

Clay shrugs, chin jutting out a little in a look that means there’s no way in hell Brock is going to win this argument. 

“I’m good. Took my painkillers before we left, and I’ll go slow. Not like I’m gonna try and run the damn thing.” 

“Clay… come on, man.” 

Brock says, almost begging. Clay holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Look, I promise I’ll let you know if it’s too much and we can turn around.”

Brock sighs, runs a hand through his hair, nods. Thinks he’ll probably live to regret this. 

“Fine. But any sign something’s wrong and we’re coming back. I don’t need Jase _and_ Trent hunting me down for sport.”

Clay laughs, rolling his eyes. As they set off Brock shakes his head, muttering under his breath. 

“This is such a bad idea…”

True to his word though Clay takes it slow. The trail only takes about forty or so minutes to run, but it takes them nearly an hour and a half to make it up to the top. By the end he’s sweating and shaky, lips tight with pain. Brock move up beside him, quietly offering an arm, but Clay turns it down, face determined, and Brock doesn’t push it. He gets the sense Clay’s fighting something bigger then just the hill.

When they finally reach the top Clay stops, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to face the sun. Brock hangs back a few steps, feeling a little like he’s intruding on something private. After a few seconds he opens his eyes again, inhaling deeply and breathing it out through his nose. There’s a faint tremble to his legs, and Brock takes that as his cue to step in.

“Hey,” He says softly , moving up beside Clay. “Maybe we should sit down for a sec.” 

Clay nods. When he sits down on the bench it’s like an old man, moving slow and careful. Brock makes sure he’s settled before dropping down beside him. They sit in companionable silence for a little while, just watching the tide slowly come in. The sun is warm against Brock’s skin, nose stinging slightly with the smell of salt. 

“I’m going to try seeing someone.” Clay says abruptly, his voice carefully even. “Jason recommended a guy to me, said he works a lot with team guys.”

Brock nods, a little surprised but trying not to show it. 

“What made you change your mind?”

He asks. Clay shakes his head, runs a hand down his beard. His eyes are focused somewhere far away. 

“When I was lying in the bottom of that truck, dying, I thought about Swanny, and Adam, and Brian. And all I could think about was how pissed they would be at me, y’know? I could almost hear Swanny in my ear calling me a dumbass.” He laughs a little, and it’s sad but Brock thinks sad is better then empty. “Feel like I owe it to them to get my shit straight, I guess.” 

Clay finishes, sounding almost embarrassed. Brock thinks he’s done, and he’s just about respond when Clay keeps going, 

“I also…I just wanted to apologize. For dumping all that shit on you last time you were here. And then asking you not to tell anyone. That…it wasn’t cool. I didn’t really have my head on right.”

Brock nods, shrugs.

“Maybe not. But to be fair I kinda cornered you.”

“Yeah, using Cerb like that wasn’t cool man. You know I got a soft spot for that dog.”

Clay says, grinning faintly, but his eyes are still uncertain. 

“Hey look, it’s fine, Clay. No harm no foul.”

“You sure?”

Clay asks, tentatively. And there’s a lot of things that Brock can’t fix. He can’t erase Manila, can’t bring back Swanny or Adam or Brian, can’t undo the parts of Clay that always seem to make him think he won’t be enough. But this one thing he can do for Clay.

“Hundred percent. Clay, all that matters is that you’re alive, and you’re here, okay. The rest we can figure out later.” 

Clay nods again, reaches down like he’s going to rub at his thigh. His hand stops at the last second though, curls into a loose fist instead as he drops it down to rest on his leg. 

“Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right." He takes a deep breath, sniffing a little. "And thanks Brock, really, for looking out for me. I- I know I don’t always make it easy…”

Brock doesn’t reply, just puts a hand on Clay’s shoulder and squeezes tight, and if Clay’s eyes are a little glassy he doesn’t mention it. Together they watch the sun start to dip low against the horizon, dying the water gold. Brock glances at his watch, it’s been almost two hours since he picked Clay up and somebody’s probably going to drop by his place to check in on him soon.

“We should probably get going, head back before it gets dark. Don’t need to add falling down a hill to your list of injuries.”

Brock suggests, thinking about the tongue-lashing he’s going to get if Trent finds out they’re gone. Jason will have him running hills for weeks. Clay rolls his eyes but nods, starts to lever himself carefully up off the bench. 

“You'd love to see me fall down a hill. I’m like a cat man, always land on my feet.”

He gripes petulantly. Brock laughs, feeling more relaxed then he has since the last time they were here. Side by side, Clay still bitching about his reflexes, they start to make their way back down the hill. And this time, when Brock moves to take Clay’s arm, he lets him. 


End file.
